


Closing Time

by FelicisQuill2



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bellarke style arguing, Birthday Party, Delinquent Life, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Jealous Bellamy, Jealous Clarke, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-02-07 00:38:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 57,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12829563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FelicisQuill2/pseuds/FelicisQuill2
Summary: It's Clarke's 21st birthday, and her friends are celebrating with her at their favorite local bar. She's nervous enough about the blind date Raven organized for her. So finding Bellamy Blake out with a hot girl at the very same bar is not helping the situation. Like, at all.*****The lean, tan arm stretches out across the bar right next to her, a few bills crumpled in its fist, as Murphy hands her a fireball shot. She figures she's picked her poison and might as well stick with it."Hers is on me. And grab me one while you're at it." Bellamy's close enough that the reverberation of his words through his own chest sends goosebumps down her arms.She whirls around and narrows her eyes at him."How's your date with Collins going? Looked like you were getting along just fine from where I was sitting." His lips twitch, and she feels a flare of anger lurch through her stomach."None of your goddamn business, Blake," she spits back. "I don't need you to buy me anything.""Oh, no? Is it me, or did you not just march yourself over to me to demand I buy you a birthday drink? And here I was thinking I was following your orders."





	1. Cheers, Princess

_"And if you let go, I'll float towards the sun_

_I'm stronger 'cause you fill me up_

_But when the fear comes, and I drift towards the ground,_

_I am lucky that you're around._

_Yeah, I wanted to play tough_

_Thought I could do all this on my own_

_But even Superwoman_

_Sometimes needed Superman's soul."_

_~Sia, "Helium"_

**_DECEMBER 2017_ **

For starters, the dress is ridiculous. It's emerald green, reveals too much thigh, and Clarke's sure her breasts are in danger of spilling out of it at any moment. It's nothing like what she normally wears. But when her friend and roommate Harper tossed it out of her own closet onto the bed as an option a few hours ago, her other roommate Raven gave her enthusiastic consent to it. 

 

"Listen to me, Griffin! You look  _hot_!" she'd said with wide eyes and exuberant nodding. 

 

Clarke shot her a skeptical face as she simultaneously tried to make the hemline longer and bodice higher. 

 

"It's December, Raven," she'd argued back. "I'm going to freeze like this." 

 

"It's your 21st birthday, for God's sake!" Raven pressed on, impervious to Clarke's lack of joy over the stretchy fabric molded to her backside. "And Finn will be drooling when he sees you - trust me." 

 

Turning to Harper for support proved useless. The dirty blonde just smiled sweetly at her and said, "You do look good, Clarke. It suits you." 

 

Now, as she makes her way through the crowd to a coveted opening at the massive bar wrapping along the back wall of Arkadia, she knows her intuition about the dress was right. The bartender Murphy's eyebrows nearly disappear when he takes in the sight of her. 

 

"Damn, Clarke. So that's what you were hiding under all the lab coats," he smirks at her. "If I'd have known, I would've been nicer to you in chemistry last year." 

 

She purses her lips at him but winds up smiling despite herself when his blue eyes flash mischievously at her. It's not like she can't take a little good natured ribbing. Plus, she's known Murphy since orientation weekend at American University three and a half years ago. He was the RA on her freshman brother hall, and she came across him during move-in weekend trying to break up an argument between two freshman, Monty and Jasper, who were fighting about where to set up the TV in their dorm. When she suggested that the boys just mount the TV on the wall between their beds so they both could see it well, they were all impressed with her problem solving skills. An easy friendship blossomed from there, strengthening when she realized Jasper could save her ass in the chemistry prerequisites she needed if she wanted to be pre-med. 

 

"Bite me," Clarke flashes Murphy a grin full of teeth. 

 

"Only after you show me your ID," he replies cheekily. 

 

She passes it over to him while Raven rolls her eyes at Harper. 

 

"Happy Birthday, Griffin," Murphy says after skimming over the piece of plastic she passes him. "So what'll it be? And remember, I recommend shots." 

 

"But _you_ won't be the one carrying them up the stairs to their third floor apartment," comes a distinctly familiar male voice from right behind her. 

 

Clarke spins on her shaky stilettos, a stupid smile already plastered to her face.    

 

"Wells!" she cries out, looping her arms around the solid middle of her childhood best friend. 

 

"Barely legal and already dangerous I see," he smiles knowingly down at her before pulling a surprised Raven casually into his side. 

 

Wells asked Raven out soon after the start of college, and Clarke's kind of ridiculously happy about it. It's not every day that two genuinely good people who also happen to be amongst her closest friends hook up. 

 

"You didn't tell me you were going to make it!" Raven squeals, slapping a hand into his ribs. 

 

"Didn't think I would, babe," he leans in to kiss her cheek before biting lightly at her jaw. "But the study session ended early, and where else would I be? I want a front row seat to this blind date you've cooked up. I live to see the unflappable Clarke Griffin get nervous."

 

Clarke throws him the middle finger, but he just laughs.

 

Raven pulls her adoring eyes from Wells long enough to scoff at his remark. She leans over to press her hand into Clarke's forearm soothingly across the bar. 

 

"Finn's super sweet, I promise," she reassures. "And he's almost as smart as you are. I've heard enough of his opinions in our international diplomacy class to be able to guarantee you'll find things to talk about." 

 

Clarke manages to smile back, but her stomach flips over with nerves nonetheless. 

 

Sure, she's already stalked as much of Finn's Facebook account as she could access, not to mention his Twitter and LinkedIn profile, too. (His Instagram wasn't public). He's a senior political science major who's already interned for a senator from Maryland and at the United Nations in a division dedicated to the conflict between Israel and Palestine. His hair is still boyishly long in the few pictures she's seen, and his smile is easy. He's got two younger brothers, and his parents are lawyers. She found out he can mold metal into unique objects, including jewelry, after a Google search that pulled up a website for his side business. He loves Chinese food, has a golden retriever, and runs 5Ks. He's worked as a lifeguard for the past few summers (he looked good in his beach photos - she won't lie). Raven also ran into him once at a Coldplay concert. Nobody can say she didn't do her research. 

 

A few minutes later, they all cram into an oversized booth, passing fireball shots to Monty and Jasper, who are engaged in a heated game of Would You Rather. Monty's reading the questions off his phone. 

 

"That's ridiculous!" Jasper nearly shouts out over the rock music as Clarke settles in next to Harper. "Losing the ability to read is way more significant than losing the ability to speak!" 

 

Monty opens his mouth to retort, but Wells ironically cuts him off before he can begin. 

 

"All right, all right!" he cries out. "Let's do a birthday toast to our girl before we get too deep into the hypotheticals!" 

 

There's a round of raucous cheering as she becomes the last in their group to hit the important milestone. Clarke tips the sweet cinnamon liquid down her throat just as a waitress comes over with a tray full of ales and another round of shots Jasper ordered for the table. 

 

"I can't get smashed before I even meet him," Clarke hisses across the table at Raven. 

 

"Don't worry - I'll make sure you're good. A little buzz never hurt anyone," Raven wiggles her eyebrows back, a smirk bubbling up at the corner of her mouth as she puts down her second shot with finesse. 

 

Clarke sighs and staring at the shot, shrugs and slips it down her throat before taking a small drink of her ale, fingers curved hard around the smooth glass. A small bit of the tension is evaporating from her shoulders, and that has to be a good sign, right? 

 

"Oh! Before I forget!" Harper says, digging through a plastic bag she pulls from somewhere near her feet. "I've got a special surprise for the birthday girl!" 

 

"You didn't have to get me anything--" Clarke starts to say before the words die in her throat. 

 

The tiara is a soft pink, outlined in purple sparkles with a rainbow's worth of gemstones embedded along the sides. Clarke takes it gingerly between two fingers,  tilting her head to the side. 

 

"Go on, birthday girl!" Jasper cries out at her hesitation. "It's not like we're going to take a hundred drunk pictures of you wearing that or anything." 

 

Clarke morphs the cough from the next swig of her drink into a dry chuckle and places the tiara upon her head, pretending to preen. She poses for the first selfie of the night with Harper after reapplying a swish of gloss to her lips. 

 

On her far left, Monty is arguing with Wells that being a normal citizen in a utopia is definitely better than being the supreme ruler of a dystopia, but she's barely listening. She's drumming her fingers nervously on the edge of the table instead in between sips - well, more like gulps - of the golden yellow beverage in front of her. Her eyes keep flicking nervously toward the door of Arkadia where she expects Finn to stroll in at any second. The darkened bar is becoming more crowded by the minute. Soon she's watching Murphy conclude a juggling act with limes to impress a cluster of scantily clad young women. That's when she spots him. 

 

His black T-shirt hugs his bicep unfairly as he rakes a tan hand through his unruly dark curls. She can feel rather than completely see the smirk on his face when he reaches across the polished mahogany bar to shove Murphy's shoulder in response to something the bartender said. 

 

She swallows hard. Of course, he  _had_  to be here on tonight of all nights, didn't he? Although she recognizes the side profile of Nathan Miller sitting next to him, the willowy figure of the brunette on his right is one she doesn't recognize. The woman's dress is steel grey and shimmery with elaborate cutaways criss-crossing her chest and sides that Clarke can take in as she swivels on her barstool. Her knuckles grip the edge of the table more tightly. Meanwhile, something scalding and sour tumbles inside her stomach. 

 

". . . back the first week of January, right?" 

 

"Clarke?" 

 

Wells' voice comes to her more insistently this time. 

 

She blinks rapidly, shaking her head in what she hopes is an imperceptible way and refocuses on her friend. 

 

"Sorry . . . what were you saying?" she tries sweetly. 

 

Raven catches her eye briefly, seemingly curious and too perceptive, but Clarke immediately looks away, feeling her cheeks heat up.

 

"We were talking about Octavia. Do you know when she gets back from France?" Wells replies.  

 

"Oh," Clarke nods, suddenly feeling warmer still in the cramped booth. "You're right. Octavia gets back the first week of the new year." 

 

It's Octavia's fault that she even met him to begin with. If they weren't placed in the same fourth grade class, she'd never know what his hands wrapped around her waist felt like or how comforting the drumbeat of his heart was against her ear. She takes another deep swig of her drink. 

 

"I hope she didn't freeze too much studying old books over there," Monty is saying. "I'd prefer study abroad in the spring if it were me." 

 

Raven starts telling a story about her time in Italy interning at Ferrari's headquarters last summer, but Clarke's already tuning out. Her eyes flick back to the bar where the dark-haired man she was observing before is making his way through the crowd toward the pool tables. 

 

"I'm going to run to the bathroom real quick!" she says abruptly, pushing away from the booth with a clatter and nearly stumbling over in her too-tall heels. 

 

"You good?" Harper raises a skeptical eyebrow at her, steadying her with a reassuring hand on her upper arm. 

 

"Yeah, fine," she smiles brightly. "Just stood up too fast." 

 

"Don't take too long!" Raven yells out at her retreating back. "Finn texted that he's almost here!" 

 

It's complicated to navigate through the warm bodies swarming across the makeshift dance floor, but she manages. Fortunately, the pool tables are tucked away in a back corner out of the line of vision of her friends' booth and near the hallway that leads to the bathrooms. The area is dimly lit, but she'd know his profile anywhere, the chiseled line of his jaw and his strong shoulders. 

 

Before she can talk herself out of it, she's marching forward to where he's bent over the green felt table, angling for his first shot while the brunette removes the triangular rack. She can hear the blood pumping in her ears. 

 

"Bellamy?" she says hesitantly, but it's loud enough. 

 

He glances up in her direction, going still for a moment before standing up straighter. She figures she must look like an idiot sorority girl in her too-tight dress, the sparkling crown slipping on top of the blonde waves cascading over her shoulders. Smoothing a hand self-consciously over her hip, she looks up in time to see Bellamy bite down on his lower lip, his eyes venturing down for the briefest of moments to her cleavage before ricocheting back up to her face. The other girl takes her in with wide eyes and a thin-mouthed expression she quickly masks.  _Yeah, this wasn't a smart idea._

"Hey, Princess," Bellamy says the words too deeply. "What's the special occasion?" 

 

She kind of despises herself when a shiver crawls up her spine despite the fact that he's adopted the cocky, overly masculine voice he uses to pick up women. It's for show, just to be impressive. And she knows it's not her he's trying to impress. Clarke glances over at the tall, thin girl standing near him. She's attractive, with heavy eyeliner, a toned body, and endless legs. Currently, she's surveying Clarke with an unreadable expression. But when she reaches out to slip her fingers between Bellamy's, something inside Clarke snaps. 

 

"You know what the occasion is," she levels the words at him like silk despite the monsoon brewing within her. "It's my 21st birthday. You owe me a drink like you promised. Time to pay up." 


	2. Tête-à-tête

The smile on Bellamy's face is pure indulgence as he takes her in fully from the hint of gold nail polish peeking out of her stilettos to the tiara perched on the crown of her head. It's a polite enough, careful once over that still makes her feel like a branding iron's been thrust upon her skin, raking its way up her body. 

 

He nods very slowly, the hand that was caught by the brunette's now tucked around the edge of her waist instead. Clarke can tell his dark eyes are a bit glazed. The brighter lighting streaming out from the stain glass fixtures above the pool tables throw the freckles dotting his cheekbones in stark relief. 

  

"Who's your little friend?" the brunette says it close to his ear but keeps her eyes trained on Clarke. Although the question comes out high-pitched and singsong, she notices the tiniest snarl of her lip. 

 

Bellamy's eyes narrow in a sort of amused challenge. 

 

"This is my kid sister's best friend," he juts his chin out in her direction. "I've known Clarke since she was carrying around a Lisa Frank lunchbox. Isn't that right, Princess?" 

 

The flush that colors Clarke's cheeks has more to do with anger now than anything else. Fine, if he was going to be a dick about things, so be it. She brings a forefinger up to her chin to tap it, as if considering. 

 

"I think it was right around the time you were bringing your Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles one everywhere you went," she deadpans, but her eyes flash.  

 

The mystery woman snorts. 

 

"Sooo, way back then," she simpers. 

 

Clarke watches Bellamy's right fist tighten around the end of his pool stick for a moment before he begins stroking it lightly. She wets her lower lip. 

 

"Clarke was Octavia's roommate at American the last few years," Bellamy offers by way of explanation. "But O's been studying literature in France this semester. So she moved her stuff in with me before she left. I guess Clarke's moved in with . . . " he scratches the back of his head as if puzzled.

 

Clarke sees straight through his bullshit act though. She also doesn't miss the note of pride that infuses his voice when he mentions Octavia's study abroad trip. It was a big deal for him when he finally saved up enough money repairing cars down at Mecha with Miller during grad school to send her. Finances have been a big deal for the Blakes for as far back as she can remember. It was a happy accident, really, that she even met them in the first place. Her school district in northern Virginia was one that subscribed to busing kids from lower-income districts into higher-end ones, and vice versa. So Octavia and Bellamy, although they would have attended a school with failing test scores all things being equal, came to Phoenix Valley Elementary and Middle School instead. They arrived a few weeks into the school year. 

  

* * *

  ** _SEPTEMBER 2005_**

Clarke's fourth grade teacher, Mr. Lemkin, assigned the small, dark-haired girl with the wide, sky-blue eyes to the empty seat left at Clarke and Wells' table. Her tennis shoes were beat up, and the colors of her T-shirt were muted from too many washes. Octavia barely talked that first day, despite their valiant attempts to engage her in conversation on the swing set at recess. And she literally jumped in her seat when Mr. Lemkin put a kind hand on her shoulder and gestured toward the door of their classroom right after lunch on her second day. 

 

That was the first time Clarke saw him. He was tall and kind of gangly, with big brown eyes that flooded with concern when they took in the girl beside her. 

 

"O, you left all your vocabulary folders in my backpack," he said softly, crouching down to pass the purple, sticker-covered supplies to her. 

 

She frowned a little, a line forming along her forehead, but accepted the folders. Clarke saw her clutch the boy's hand before he could pull it away. Then she caught a glimpse of the really pretty pictures Octavia had drawn beside each vocab word as a paper slid out of the folder with her motion. 

 

"These are so good!" Clarke gasped, smiling widely and pulling one sheet out to examine more closely. "I have some art supplies you could share with me." She began rummaging in the dark desk space behind her pencil case.  

 

Octavia looked on in interest as she pulled out a big pack of oil pastel crayons and thick, sparkling jelly roll pens that you could squeeze. 

 

"Go ahead, they're all yours!" Clarke said kindly as Octavia reached out a hesitant hand for the package of crayons. 

 

She caught the boy wink at her quickly before he drew away to the door. His name, Octavia later informed her through big bites of her peanut butter and jelly sandwich, was Bellamy. He was the very best older brother ever, and he was in seventh grade. 

 

* * *

_**DECEMBER 2017**_  

"Don't act like you don't know who," she snaps at him, drawing herself up to her full height.  

 

"Does it really matter?" Bellamy says more stonily than before. "I'm not your keeper. Shouldn't you be off celebrating with them instead of giving me a hard time?"  

 

"Oh, I don't know," Clarke steps forward and leans her hands behind her on the nearest pool table. She realizes it probably looks a bit ridiculous, but it's creating a strain across the top of her dress, and that's what she was going for anyway. "I thought we could catch up a little. How's work?" 

 

Bellamy graduated from American with a master's degree in Classics on a full scholarship in the spring. For the last few months, he's been teaching high school history at the school he would have gone to if things had been different.

 

He lets out a deep sigh, tongue catching briefly between his teeth. 

 

"Give us a second, Echo." 

 

The woman appears a cross between angry and confused but remains silent, barely nodding. He crosses the short distance to her, and although she sees his jaw set, and his neck muscle become defined, she holds her ground, blue eyes blazing into his much darker ones. 

 

"I'm not doing this with you here, Clarke," he says, dark and low, fingers locking around her wrist where it rests on the cool wood of the table. But the moment they do, he jerks back as if shocked.

 

"What if I want to do it here?" she demands. 

  

Her eyelids feel a little too heavy to lift up with all the shock silver-and-green shadow Harper smudged on them. She watches him closely underneath a thick line of lashes. His chest is rising and falling noticeably.  

 

"Go have a good time. Murphy says you're expecting company anyway," he grits out after a brief pause. "Probably another winner."  

 

Her nostrils quiver, and her mouth puckers in distaste. 

 

"How do you even--? You don't know--" she splutters, forgetting her efforts at composure and slamming the flat of her palm right into his shoulder. 

 

Bellamy's pupils expand momentarily, and he takes a measured step forward, the action crowding her back against the table even though there's still several feet between them. She has the strangest feeling he's about to--

 

"Clarke! Clarke! Over here!" the shout comes from her left. 

 

The heat of Bellamy's chest is gone in a split second. Blinking herself back into the moment, she turns slowly. Her eyes land on a young man's longish chestnut hair and broad grin.

 

"Hey!" Finn Collins gives her a small wave. "I'm here." 


	3. Linked

Finn approaches them eagerly, extending his hand to Clarke and forcing Bellamy back several steps with his sheer enthusiasm.  

"Clarke! Happy Birthday! It's great to meet you finally!" 

Clarke stares at him for a moment, lips parted, before reaching out to share his hand and smile back. 

"Hi Finn, nice to meet you, too!" she puts on her most bubbly tone. 

He's definitely . . . attractive; Raven wasn't lying. He has a bit of a swagger to him that was impossible to catch in photos, and she likes his leather jacket and the way his hair flicks across his amber eyes. She takes in his straight nose and the full swell of his lips before checking out his expensive clothes. It's highly likely her mother would approve of him, that's for sure. Finn's gaze is occupied flicking appreciatively down the length of her dress when she hears Bellamy's mutter nearby. 

"You've got to be kidding me." 

Her spine tenses, and she shoots daggers at him. The words seem to remind Finn that there are other people present. 

"Umm . . . sorry I was late," he says, more unsure now. But a puppy dog look stains his features when he finds Clarke's eyes again. "With Theresa May visiting the White House, traffic is a nightmare. I got my Uber Black driver to drop me off as close as he could," he offers a one shoulder shrug. 

Echo clicks her tongue and steps back into Bellamy's side. She's staring Finn down in a special way that gives Clarke's alcohol-laced brain the strangest notion she'd like to put an arrow through his chest. Finn runs a hand through his glossy hair. 

"Are these -" he gestures toward Bellamy and Echo, "uh, friends of yours, Clarke?" 

Her laughter is light and airy like chiming bells in a clock tower. 

"Not really," she smiles sweetly, sparing one more glance for Bellamy, who looks mutinous. "Come on, let's go." 

She threads her hand through a confused Finn's arm and lets him guide her back toward her friends' booth. 

* * *

"But baaaaaabe, you never want to dance!" Harper is whining at Monty when they arrive.

"It's true," Clarke whispers to Finn conspiratorially. "She's always trying to convince him, and he's always saying he has two left feet."   

"Poor guy," Finn's eyes twinkle as he plays along. "Lucky for you that's not one of my problems." 

"Presumptuous, aren't you?" Clarke volleys back, although she's not really offended. It's kind of frustrating, really, how his face makes her trust him sort of automatically. 

"Ah! Perfect, you found each other," Raven grins at them when Clarke presses her hip into her friend's shoulder. 

"Here's your whisky sour, man," Wells gestures toward the sunrise-colored drink on the table. 

"Thanks," Finn says pleasantly, reaching out to tip the glass to his lips, eyes full of amusement and focused on Clarke. 

Heat rises up her chest at the attention, but fortunately, Jasper begins his usual play for his best friend's girl. 

"I'll dance with you, Ms. McIntyre," he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. "You know they don't call me Swayze for nothing." 

Raven snorts into the top of drink, reaching out for a napkin to press across her face and stifle the laughter. 

"Fine! I'll go!" Monty cries out dramatically after more prodding and pouty lip faces from his girlfriend. 

The couple make their way to the dance floor, leaving room for Clarke and Finn to comfortably sit down. A few minutes later, Raven and Wells join them, and Jasper wanders off too, probably in search of some unsuspecting girl to hit on.  

Clarke tells Finn a bit about being premed and learns he's a senior at American studying political science (well, she pretends like it's new information). When a waitress comes over with a red plastic dish covered in red-and-white checkered paper, she discovers he's more than willing to share his spicy chicken quesadilla. Finn actually does surprise her with the amount of things he knows about the fight for women's rights in Saudi Arabia. At one point, he goes on a bit of a tangent about how creating more equality for both genders in the Middle East would really help build the foundation for lasting peace in the troubled region. He catches himself in the middle of a sentence about Malala and grins bashfully. "Sorry, I can get a little carried away sometimes," he admits. 

"No, it's all right. I like when people are passionate about things. These are all important issues," Clarke squeezes his knee under the table, perhaps more because she recently polished off her beer than anything else. 

The Christmas decorations hanging from the ceiling remind Finn of holidays spent in Maine with his grandparents growing up. She listens politely as he chats about sledding with his brothers and having all-out snowball wars with the neighborhood kids up there. 

When he asks what her parents do, something closes in her throat, and a few tears spill over her lash line before she can stop them. 

He reacts hastily, nearly knocking over his second drink in his haste to grab her a napkin. 

"Shit, I'm sorry, Clarke. I didn't mean to upset you!" 

"It's ok," she smiles a little back at him, accepting the napkin he hands her. 

She opens her mouth to tell him about her mother's job as a surgeon when a sudden gap on the dance floor gives her a clear view of Bellamy and Echo back on the barstools. At the sight of Echo playing with Bellamy's black hair, curling the ends of it around her fingers, her stomach tightens painfully. Bellamy's hand is resting high on her thigh, and he's giving her his cocky grin, laughing at whatever idiotic thing she's probably telling him. 

"Clarke?" 

Finn's hand squeezing gently at her waist jars her more than it probably should. 

"Yeah?" she blinks at him. 

"Do you want to dance?" he whispers the question against her neck, and her skin prickles. She's not sure if it's in the good way or not. 

She forces out a smile. 

"Sure, why not?" 

* * *

It's not hard to get lost in the sway of the pop music creating wall-to-wall sound in the warm bar. Clarke's hips rock back and forth without much thought on her part. Finn attempts to pull her closer to him by her waist, but she cups his hand playfully instead, leading it to her hip and turning in his arms, so her back is against his chest. His warm fingers tighten around hers at the edge of her hip bone as they dance. She keeps a few inches of space between their bodies and closes her eyes, trying to forget the thick trail of smoke and fire streaming out of the back of the plane. 

_I don't wanna live forever_

_'Cause I know I'll be livin' in vain._

_And I don't wanna fit wherever_

_I just wanna keep callin' your name_

_Until you come back home._

Finn's lips brushing against her ear cause her eyes to snap back open. They find Bellamy's - somehow, she's pointed in his direction now. An electrical current courses through her, and her hips jerk back at the intensity of the look he's sending her way. But as quick as it comes, it's gone, and he's back to drinking from his beer bottle and leaning in to see something Echo's pointing to on her phone.  

Finn mistakes her unexpected movement against him because suddenly his chest is flush with her back, and his fingers grip her hip more confidently. 

"You're so beautiful, Clarke," he murmurs into her neck. 

The slide of his soft lips along her pulse point sends her barreling out of his grasp. 

"Water," she turns back to him briefly. "I need some water." 

* * *

The lean, tan arm stretches out across the bar right next to her, a few bills crumpled in its fist, as Murphy hands her a fireball shot. She figures she's picked her poison and might as well stick with it. 

"Hers is on me. And grab me one while you're at it." Bellamy's close enough that the reverberation of his words through his own chest sends goosebumps down her arms. 

She whirls around and narrows her eyes at him. 

"How's your date with Collins going? Looked like you were getting along just fine from where I was sitting." His lips twitch, and she feels a flare of anger lurch through her stomach. 

"None of your goddamn business, Blake," she spits back. "I don't need you to buy me anything." 

"Oh, no? Is it me, or did you not just march yourself over to me to  _demand_ I buy you a birthday drink? And here I was thinking I was following your orders." 

She spins in the seat so fast, pushing off the bar for momentum that Bellamy's hand shoots out to stop the abrupt motion. It settles on her thigh, hot and steady. He doesn't move it. 

"So you only accept drinks from the preppy, politician wannabes, Princess? Is that it?" He's leaning closer, so their faces are only eight or so inches apart. 

"Fuck you," she spits. 

She has half a mind to knee him in the groin and leap off the stool, but then a flash of something beyond anger and arrogance sweeps over his attractive face. 

"Careful," Bellamy continues to tease meanly, pressing his hand into her thigh once sharply before drawing back completely. "The Collins family doesn't like that kind of language in their commercials." 

It catches Clarke off guard.

"How did you know--"

"Give me some credit, Clarke," he barks out. "It's common knowledge Finn's family's loaded from all their hair salons. The ads are everywhere.  _Spacewalker Salons: decorated with intergalactic themes to bring you out-of-this-world style_." He shoots her a look dripping with skepticism. 

"So you've got a problem with entrepreneurship now, too?" Clarke demands. 

Her fingers curve hard around her shot glass, and she sips a bit of the liquid off the top of it. 

"I have a problem with people who think they're entitled." 

Bellamy reaches around her, his chest skimming across her shoulder enough to make her clench her thighs together, to pick up the shot Murphy just left him. 

She rolls her eyes at his words, even as she misses his heat against her. 

"You just met him. How the hell do you know he's entitled?" she hisses. 

"I got my  _Uber Black driver_ to drop me off as close as he possibly could . . . " Bellamy turns Finn's voice into an ugly falsetto before downing the sweet shot. 

"I don't know how you stand this one, Princess," he grimaces, dropping the empty glass back on the counter. "But happy birthday." 

"When the fuck are you going to stop calling me that?" she says roughly because there's something in his eyes that's making her uneasy. "It's getting old." 

"When you stop acting like one. Twelve years, no major changes yet," he shoots back. 

Still, she feels like something's off. Sure, the drinking is helping to fog her brain up and muddle her responses. But there's something in his suddenly earnest gaze that's urging her to think. To remember. Her haughty response decays in her throat as he brushes the hair out of her eyes, allowing the pad of his thumb to skim across her lower lip before he disappears back into the crowd. It leaves her breathless. And that's when the memory returns. 

* * *

_**FEBRUARY 2008** _

Octavia's mom had a ton of colorful costumes, embroidered with lace and tulle. They overflowed from a beat-up steamer trunk in the Blake's basement. When Clarke and Octavia were kids, they loved wrapping feather boas around themselves after school, stumbling around in patterned pumps too big for their feet and smearing red lipstick from an old makeup bag across their mouths. 

The Blake house was on the far outskirts of Washington, D.C. It was a ramshackle ranch with the blue paint peeling off the shutters and a small vegetable garden in the backyard. Clarke had only visited a couple times when her mom and dad worked late and Wells' parents were away on a trip or at a conference. 

But Aurora - that was what she heard the man who lived there call her - wasn't around much. She worked nights at a hotel, that was what Bellamy said, and slept a lot during the day. The man, all she knew was that he wasn't Octavia's dad or Bellamy's either, hung out a lot on the worn couch in the den. Smoke clung to the air in there, and beer cans often littered the ground. A red baseball cap sat low across his eyes and a rifle hung over the door. The TV was normally on one of those judge shows low in the background. 

So it was Bellamy who usually made them a snack on the rare occasions she went home on Octavia's bus after school. He'd insist they play downstairs with the radio on. But sometimes, she thought she heard shouting or a loud thud like a body colliding with a wall. On those days, Octavia was especially quiet.  

Aurora was nice enough when she was around. Clarke watched her brush out Octavia's long hair until it reached a glossy shine. And there was one time she kissed Bellamy's cheek when he came home with an A on his math test, and she baked chocolate chip cookies for them all afterward. But Clarke once caught a strange glimpse of Octavia's mom through the crack of the open bathroom door as she passed down their narrow hallway. Aurora was examining a large blue-purple bruise across her forearm and quickly pulled down her shirtsleeve when she caught Clarke's curious eyes in the mirror's reflection.     

Bellamy's heavy footsteps on the basement steps startled the girls one dreary afternoon when she was eleven. Octavia had just dug up a partially bent golden crown from Burger King and placed it on Clarke's blonde head, dubbing her "Princess of the Kingdom." The older boy's eyes were full of something slightly wild when he crouched down next to her and reached for her forearms. Something resembling a raw burn mark ate up the skin a few inches along his cheekbone. It made her angry. 

"Hey, Clarke, I need you to use the phone down here and call your mom or dad to pick you up, ok? We're going to leave out the back door to the yard. Octavia and I will wait with you until one of them gets here. But you've got to be quiet. Can do you that for me?" 

Just then, the sound of smashing glass sounded from above. Octavia whimpered and immediately wrapped her arms around her brother's waist as he stood up. Clarke's eyes widened as a strange sort of fear filled her up. But Bellamy's eyes were steady and searching as they scanned her face, and she found herself nodding. 

"Ok," she whispered back, and Bellamy gave her a tight smile. "It's going to be all right, Octavia. I'm here with you." 

A man's shout cracked through the silence, shortly followed by a woman's guttural shriek. 

She reached her mom on the third ring. Abby Griffin arrived outside the Blake's home twenty minutes later with two police cars and an EMT van in tow. One of Aurora's eyes was swollen shut when she came through the front door. Clarke never saw the man again after that day the police officer handcuffed him. Somehow though, the stupid paper crown was still on her head as she stood in the damp, patchy grass and let her mom finish talking to the female officer, Major Byrne. 

Bellamy walked up to the place where she had an arm tightly wrapped around Octavia's shoulders. He gently plucked the paper crown off her head. 

"Brave Princess," he said softly. 

* * *

_**JUNE 2011** _

Aurora never did break her addiction to the pills. When Bellamy was eighteen, fresh out of high school, she tried to slit her wrists in the same bathroom Clarke watched her in years before. Clarke and Wells stayed with Octavia for three days in the Griffins' upstairs loft watching her favorite movies and letting her cry when it didn't help. 

At the end of the third day, Bellamy showed up on the Griffin's doorstep with bags under his eyes and what seemed like a permanent slump to his shoulders. Clarke stood at the top of the stairs and watched him talking to her father, who was trying to invite him inside for dinner. He kept politely refusing. 

He took one small step backwards toward the walkway, about to slip away. Without thinking, she launched herself down the long flight of carpeted steps, past her dad, and directly into his surprised arms. 

"I'm really, really sorry," she'd whispered into his neck, breathing in a scent like bonfires that clung to him. A few of her own tears splashed down into his thin shirt. His arms, reluctant at first, soon banded together across her waist. 

"Thanks, Princess," he murmured against her hair before finally letting her go. 

Aurora was sent to Polis Heights, an institution for the mentally unwell. Wells' father, Thelonius Jaha, used his pull in the court system to ensure Bellamy was granted custody of Octavia. He sold their house and moved with his sister into a small apartment near American University, where he started classes on a full scholarship. 

Aurora's children visited her as often as they could. But Octavia once revealed to Clarke that they wanted to decorate their mom's room for that first Christmas and bring her gifts, so she wouldn't feel so lonely. Yet when they arrived, she spent most of the visit either staring blankly at the wall or feverishly stitching quilt squares together in her lap. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this took a turn. You know me - I think it's going to be short, sweet, and to the point. But what do you get instead? Lengthy angst. Apparently it's my religion. As always, feel free to comment below should the mood strike you. Thanks for reading!


	4. Last Call

_**NOVEMBER 2012** _

The next year, it was Clarke's turn to fall apart.

 

Her parents had been happily married for twenty years. Jake Griffin taught her how to ride a bike, play chess, and untangle the complexities of her physics homework. His blue eyes matched hers and swam with laughter more often than not. Whenever he came close to a real argument with Abby, he'd turn on Moon River, crooning along to it and sweeping her around the tiled kitchen floor until she was smiling again, her face tucked against his neck. 

 

It was late Monday afternoon, the day after Clarke had sat wedged between Jake and Wells at a Baltimore Ravens game Thelonious had snagged tickets to. She could still smell the cheese from the nachos. The Ravens won that weekend, but she lost everything. 

 

Jake, a former NASA engineer, worked for a think tank in D.C. He was flying out to Boston to give a big presentation at Harvard about the most economical ways to conduct space exploration. He was supposed to be on the 2:30 p.m. flight. 

 

So when news of the explosive crash broke across all the major networks, she reassured herself it wasn't him, not his plane, but the one that took off after it. Her mother - stopping in the middle of a knee surgery - reassured her of this over the phone, too. By five, there was still no word from her father. 

 

She drove in a blind panic to the first place that flashed into her mind. The tears grew cold on her cheeks as she pushed the gas pedal harder toward the ground and almost slammed into the cement sidewalk bordering the apartment complex. 

 

Her knocks on the door were loud, insistent, and unceasing. 

 

"Clarke?" Bellamy ripped open the door and stared at her, bewildered. "What are you doing here? Octavia's out," he shuffled a hand through his tangled curls. "She's at the library working on a group project." 

 

Her glazed expression quickly gave way to a quivering chin and welling eyes. 

 

"Woah, Jesus, what's wrong, Clarke?" 

 

The full weight of her small frame collapsed against him as her legs gave out. He shut the door and awkwardly patted her back. 

 

"B-Ba-Bellamy. W-Wh-What if it's him? What if he's  _gone_?" she mumbled into his shirt, trailing water down the front of it. 

 

She felt like a caged animal in the apartment, wearing down the brown carpet as she paced back and forth between the living room and the kitchen. Despite how often she stared at her home screen, her phone failed to ring. She knew she was making Bellamy nervous because he'd immediately turned on CNN at the lowest volume and dropped the tea kettle onto the stove with a clatter.  

 

"What are you doing?" Clarke asked frantically, leaning over the small bar and peering into the kitchen. Her fingers turned white as she gripped the counter hard. 

 

"You need something hot to drink," was all Bellamy said, motioning her over to the couch. 

 

A few minutes later, she had an afghan tucked around her shoulders and a steaming mug of Earl Grey wrapped around her trembling hands. By the time the tea was gone, her legs still wouldn't stop shaking. So they walked to the old rock quarry behind the complex, Clarke claiming she needed the fresh air. 

 

"It's going to be ok, Clarke. We don't know anything yet." Bellamy blew out a deep breath next to her, their shoulders almost touching as they moved. 

 

He looked down for a few moments, sending a text to Octavia to tell her to come home. But by the time his eyes scanned the landscape again, Clarke was propelling herself toward the boundary of the quarry. Her scuffed ankle boots shifted stones and pebbles over the edge as she teetered on the brink overlooking the turquoise-gray ripples forty feet below. 

 

"CLARKE!" she heard Bellamy's raw cry behind her, half-drowned in the wind. 

 

Maybe it was a small step forward. Maybe she was trying to turn back around. But her foot caught on something slippery, and she started to fall. There was desperate panic in Bellamy's eyes as his fingers latched around her fragile wrist. For one wild moment their eyes locked, and she was afraid he wouldn't be able to drag her back up. She wasn't even sure if she wanted to return to solid ground. In the end, exertion etched into the tendons of his neck as he tugged her shaking form back up against his chest. 

 

An hour later, Abby appeared at the Blake's door to find her daughter being gently rocked by Octavia on the too-soft sofa. One look at her mother's face told Clarke everything she needed to know. 

 

* * *

_**DECEMBER 2017** _

Echo's gleeful laugh can be heard over Miller's groan as her dart zooms straight into the bull's eye. 

 

"You never stood a chance!" she calls out with a grin. 

 

"Yeah, yeah. My shoulder's been bothering me from fixing up that jeep last weekend," he throws a solid hand up to his ball and socket joint and rotates it. 

 

Echo scoffs playfully, flips her hair over her shoulder and zeros in on Bellamy nursing a beer while chatting with some kid with goggles on his head. It took her weeks to secure a date with the handsome history teacher down the hall, and she wasn't going to waste her opportunity.  

 

She wraps her arms around his shoulders from behind and presses her mouth against his ear. 

 

"So did you want to come back to my place tonight, or...?" she lilts. 

 

"No," Bellamy snaps with a ringing finality. 

 

She reels backward, eyes wide, and stares at him. 

 

He sighs. 

 

"Sorry, Echo. It's been fun. I'm glad we got a chance to hang out, but just, not tonight, ok?" 

 

She nods once curtly, purses her lips together, and reaching for her coat, sets off briskly for the door. Monday is going to be awkward.

 

Nobody ever pays much attention to Murphy, but if they did, they'd see him shaking his head and smirking as he closes out Miller's tab. 

 

* * *

Arkadia is emptying out slowly but steadily as the night wears on. Clarke sinks back into the cushioned booth, her feet protesting too many hours in her sky-high shoes. She smiles as Finn approaches her, but it doesn't show any teeth. 

 

"I had a really good time hanging out with you tonight," he leans in to kiss her cheek. "Happy Birthday again." 

 

A faint hint of mint wraps itself around her even as he draws back. 

 

"Me too, Finn. I hope you have a great winter break in Maine!" 

 

Finn's face falls a little, but he recovers quickly, clearing his throat. 

 

"Well, actually, uh . . . I was hoping I could maybe see you again before break? If you wanted," he ends on a hopeful, questioning high note. 

 

Far behind him, Bellamy is carrying crates full of empty bottles toward the back room where she knows the recycling is kept. Once in a while he helps Murphy out as a bartender here, but it's normally just in the summers. 

 

"Yeah, maybe we could do that if there's time," Clarke says. It sounds too bright to her ears, but Finn smiles. She accepts his phone to add her number to his contacts. 

 

"Do you need a ride home?" he asks when she's done. 

 

"Oh," she smoothes a long strand of her blonde hair behind her ear. "No, but thank you! Raven is taking me home. You know," she chuckles quietly, "roommates and all." 

 

She says goodbye to Monty, Harper, and Jasper a few minutes later. The wood paneled wall feels soothing where she leans her head back on it, and she sips at a glass of water, swaying to Despacito despite her lack of love for the song. The click of Raven's heels alerts her to her friends' presence. 

 

"All right, babe, ready to call it a night? We're five minutes away from our Uber ride," Raven squeezes her shoulder. 

 

"Did we wear you out, Clarke?" Wells raises an eyebrow at her, voice full of laughter. 

 

Her eyes gravitate to a booth two away from their own where Bellamy is wiping down the table. Wells, ever observant, follows her gaze and nudges Raven in the ribs with his elbow. 

 

"I didn't even know he was here tonight," Raven clucks her tongue. "So, ready to  _go_?" she reasserts the question more forcefully. 

 

"I-I think I'll stay a little longer?" Clarke blinks a few times, not quite meeting Raven's pointed look. "You guys go on home. Thanks for making it a great birthday!" she smiles more sincerely. 

 

Raven purses her mouth and appears torn between sympathy and annoyance as she watches her best friend. Clarke's hair is wavy and curling at the tips from the dancing. Her legs are tucked up beneath her, but angled to the side due to her short dress. It's Wells who speaks first though. 

 

"Clarke, don't take this the wrong way, but I kind of think I need to save you from yourself here . . . " he says slowly. 

 

"What are you talking about?" she snaps, tilting her head to stare at him straight on. 

 

He scratches the back of his neck as Raven's eyes widen. 

 

"I know you don't want to tell me what went down at the end of the summer, but," Wells sighs. "I don't like the way he's been talking to you. And you've been drinking, birthday girl. Maybe you can hash it out another day, hmm?" 

 

"You don't know anything about it," she mutters down toward the napkin she's shredding between her fingers. 

 

"Clarke, he's right," Raven interjects hastily, sensing a fight on the horizon. "Whatever you've got to say to him can wait for a better time, can't it?" 

 

Clarke rolls her tongue between her teeth, eyes latched onto Bellamy's shoulder blades as he scrubs down the booth seats. No, it couldn't wait. 

 

"I'm 21. I can drink, smoke, gamble, join the army, drive, get a tattoo, and apply for a pilot's license," she snaps. "So I can stay in this damn bar if I want to. Have a good night." 

 

Raven huffs, but just touches her shoulder briefly, says "see you back home," and takes Wells' hand to walk toward the entrance. She watches their retreating backs as they brush easily against each other, and an ice skating rink blooms up in her mind's eye. 

 

* * *

**_DECEMBER 2015_ **

The cold air stung her cheeks and made her eyes water as her ankles wobbled in the skates. She grabbed for the side of the rink, frantic to stay upright. Wells thought it would be great to check out the new ice skating rink before it got too crazy for Christmas, and she was moronic enough to agree with him. But premed was already killing her, and she'd needed a break. 

 

As she tried to push off on her left leg, she immediately felt unsteady, and a moment later, hit the ice on her right hip with a thud. Beyond frustrated, she clutched again for the railing. This was her fourth attempt in fifteen minutes to just make it once around the rink. Raven, on the other hand, was doing just fine. She sailed across the ice like she was born for it, cutting impressive, dizzying patterns into its sleek surface and managing all the twists and leaps Clarke had only ever seen on TV during the Olympics. Clarke tried not to pay so much attention, but it was hard to miss Raven's rich red peacoat as she laughed brightly and grabbed Wells' hand, tugging him along behind her. 

 

Off on the other side of the rink, Octavia was spinning gracefully with her boyfriend, Lincoln, who seemed to be having a reaction more reminiscent of Clarke's. She was about to call it a day when a tap came at her shoulder. Very carefully she turned on her skates, fingertips never leaving the wall completely. 

 

Bellamy was in front of her, grinning, wearing an olive jacket and a wind-flushed face. He was supposed to be meeting his girlfriend Gina there, but she'd gotten the flu and hadn't been able to come. 

 

"Having a little trouble?" he smirked. 

 

"I'm just fine, thank you," Clarke replied primly, even as her knit hat slid low across her forehead, obstructing part of her vision. 

 

"Didn't seem that way a minute ago," Bellamy's eyes continued to flash merrily. "Come on, let me help you. Just once around the rink." 

 

He skated  _backwards_  (Dear God had they all gone to some winter camp together and learned this without her?) and held out his arms toward her as if he had absolutely no fear of falling on his ass. 

 

"Let's go, Princess. I don't have all day," he teased as he moved farther away. "You can do it. Just start with a little momentum - not too much - and keep your balance." 

 

She felt like a one-year-old being encouraged to walk for the first time. Gritting her teeth, she rolled her eyes before pushing away from the wall and slid one foot in front of the other toward Bellamy. She must have overestimated her speed though because before she knew it, she was practically knocking him down. Only his large hands spanning her waist slowed her movement as she shrieked. 

 

"You're ok. You did good!" Bellamy's hot breath fanned over her cheek as he encouraged her. 

 

Snow was falling gently, and a few flakes caught in his eyelashes. 

 

"Mmphf," she grunted, but mostly because she didn't trust herself to speak in this close a proximity to him. 

 

Bellamy wiggled his eyebrows at her and caught her hand. 

 

"We'll just go once in a big circle, and then you can say you did it. Together, ok?" 

 

She smiled back, something unfurling in her stomach quite without her permission. 

 

"Together," she agreed, more kindly this time. 

 

* * *

_**DECEMBER 2017** _

It feels like that now - the sure and steady pull toward Bellamy Blake. She watches him disappear into the darkened back hallway with an armful of bottles and makes up her mind.

 

The door to the supply room is ajar, honey-golden light spilling out onto the floor. Bellamy's so caught up in sorting the aluminum cans separately from the glass bottles that he doesn't even hear her approach. 

 

"I wasn't the brave one," she says when she draws close enough. 

 

"What?" he asks suddenly, whipping around. 

 

His eyes narrow when he sees who it is. Her dress feels painfully tight like its crushing her lungs. But maybe that's just because she's breathing heavier now as her heart rate picks up. 

 

"You're the one who saved me that day, saved us all," she bites into the plush cushion of her bottom lip with a sharp canine. 

 

"What are you talking about, Clarke?" he snaps. 

 

"Out on the lawn that day your stepdad got taken away. You called me 'brave princess,' but you were the one who got me and Octavia out of the house in time. You made sure we were safe. He probably would have hurt us too if you hadn't," she says it softly, the words barely audible over the persistent pulse of music still echoing from the bar. 

 

Bellamy appears pained for a moment. But then he shakes his head back and forth, rubbing a hand across his eyes before looking back at her. 

 

"Well, you don't need me to save you anymore. You've got it all figured out now, don't you?" 

 

Her exasperation chokes her as his cavalier tone hits home. 

 

"Of course I don't have it all figured out!" she stomps her foot, stiletto clicking ominously into the floor with the force of it. "What does that even mean?" 

 

"Why don't you ask your boyfriend the model? Or are you with Finn the shampoo salesman now? Sorry, it's hard to keep up with your personal life these days," Bellamy grits out meanly. 

 

"This is about that party? Still? Are you serious?" she takes a few steps closer to him, surprised her voice could sound so shrill. 

 

Bellamy shrugs. 

 

"You put yourself in a pretty fucking stupid situation if I remember right." 

 

He takes two smooth steps toward where she stands against the brick wall. She figures he's trying to intimidate her with his size like he did when they fought as kids. 

 

"I knew what I was doing, you jackass! You're the one who lost it!" Clarke pokes her finger straight into his breastbone. 

 

"It didn't look that way to me," he returns gruffly. He throws a hand out against the wall near her head. True blackness swarms his eyes, eating up the brown warmth there while he stares down at her. "I don't think you had it under control at all." 

 

His left hand moves through the air toward the wall next to her other side, and she tries to swat him away, but he captures her wrist and pins it to the cool brick. Her legs are a little too open in this strange position, and she knows her dress is hitching up her thigh. She moves to tug it down with her left hand, but his sure grip holds that one against the wall like velcro, too. Bellamy leans in closer to her, and she can make out the stubble coming in along his strong jawline. Her breasts rise up against the confining threads of her dress while his spicy heat weaves itself like a blanket around her. 

 

* * *

_**JUNE 2014** _

The last time she was scared in Bellamy's presence was at the movie theatre. Octavia insisted they all go see The Conjuring, and she got stuck on the end next to him. They hadn't been speaking because he'd told her at lunch there was no way in hell he was letting her drive his Range Rover to the house on the Outer Banks her friends were renting before the start of college. 

 

"Why not? It's the only one big enough to hold all our beach stuff, and I'll be careful with it," she'd argued. 

 

"No," he'd already made up his mind, "I'm a better driver. My car, my rules. End of discussion."

 

She'd fumed silently for the next half hour, stabbing too vehemently at her salad and causing a small spray of raw tomato juice to stain her white sundress. 

 

Yet when a bang erupted on screen and Carolyn fell down the stairs into the pitch black basement, she yelped and grabbed for Bellamy's arm, wrapping herself around the muscular flesh of his bicep without thinking. Immediately embarrassed, she turned a dusky rose in the darkness, but she clung to him anyway, shielding herself in his sweet smelling shirt from the horrors unfolding onscreen. At first, he stiffened. But then he chuckled and rolled up the arm rest, so she could scoot closer. He shook some Junior Mints into his palm and held them out to her. "It's ok, Princess. I'll tell you when you can look again," he whispered. 

 

* * *

_**DECEMBER 2017** _

He whispers dangerously low against her hair now. 

 

"Is this what you want, Clarke? To be shoved up against a wall? Taken?" 

 

They stare into each other's eyes for a long moment, and she's at a total loss for words the instant the hardness of him brushes near her stomach. A zinging sensation pulsates through her core, and heat spreads through her chest. 

 

But he's already relaxing his grip, pulling away. She swallows hard, forces herself to say it. 

 

"Only if it's by you." 


	5. Blurred Lines

Her fingertips drift up into the air toward his forearm, but he's already moved a few feet away. The rush of cool air he leaves in his wake chills her skin. Nervous fear courses through her blood like buzzing bees as she takes in his widening eyes and lips parted in surprise. She's back on the edge of that quarry, tipping, swaying, about to go over. Bellamy drags a hand slowly across his face, and this time, she's desperately afraid he's not going to catch her. He narrows his eyes skeptically, taking her in. The hollowness sets in immediately.

 

"How much did you drink tonight?"

 

"Bellamy . . . " she hunches her shoulders and yanks down on the hem of her dress. She's too exposed.

 

He shakes his head carefully, in slow motion, biting down on his bottom lip.

 

"I'm sorry," she whispers to her shiny shoes dulled in the low light, the words catching in her throat.

 

"Clarke, stop it."

 

His tone is harsher than normal, but the warm finger that catches under her chin holds firm. He steadily lifts her face, the muscles in her neck going limp to allow it even as her brain screams to run, until her wary blue eyes meet his own.

 

"You know I would _never_ do that to you."

 

She barely hears him, and an instant later, his hand is gone. The tidal wave of panic strumming through her petite frame engulfs her in its rising flow. Her palm smacks into the space near her collarbone. Her breath comes in increasingly shorter rasps, and she tugs at the top of her ridiculous dress. Harper's dress. It doesn't suit her; that was a lie. None of this suits her. She's not a sexy seductress. She can't compete with the likes of Echo, and she knows it. Gray dots appear on the edges of her vision, and the hallway seems to tilt a few degrees while her heart kicks into a fierce drumbeat.

 

"I . . . know . . . " she manages to gasp out.

 

"Jesus, Clarke, calm down. It's all right. You're all right. Everything's good. I need you to calm down for me." Bellamy is suddenly nervously babbling. 

 

His own breathing is picking up. She knows he's seen it get this bad once. Clarke takes a shuttering, shaky breath. She fights to regain her composure, but her hand claws at the wall behind her looking for something steady.

 

He seems torn, clearly not wanting to crowd her. But his eyes track the way she weakly kicks off her shoes, and he darts forward once as if to grab her arm before drawing himself back.

 

"I can't . . . I can't . . . breathe," she stares up at him in earnest now, pleading.

 

This hasn't happened in a while. She's been good, strong. The decision flashes in his eyes.

 

"Fuck it," he mutters, stepping swiftly forward and scooping her up under her knees and around her back. She emits a whimper but just turns her head into his chest and squints her eyes shut.

 

He carries her into the back room, depositing her on the black bean bag chair Murphy left there as a joke last summer when Miller told him he probably just accepted the bartending gig as an excuse to get high during his breaks. There's an accompanying lava lamp to go with it, black too, but it emits shock yellow liquid.

 

Medium pink blotches appear across the front of her shoulders and collarbone as if she's been splashed by tie-dye. Bellamy takes hold of her shoulder and gently pushes her forward, hastily unzipping her dress halfway down her back to create breathing room. Clarke points toward the sprawling grey metal shelving across from them until Bellamy finally follows the direction of her hand. The shelves are cluttered with bottles sporting varying degrees of dust. But then he sees it. There's water here, thank God.

 

He lurches up and comes back a moment later with an open bottle for her which she begins to guzzle down greedily. She wipes away a trickle of water that coasts down her chin, not meeting Bellamy's eyes but instead clutching the top of her dress more securely to herself. Bellamy places a tentative few fingers on her wrist when she continues to struggle for air.

 

"Slow and steady. In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Everything's fine. I'm here."

 

She raises her free hand, and for a wild moment, he thinks she's going to slap him as it comes soaring through the air. But she clutches his taut bicep muscle tight instead and yanks forward once, magnificently.

 

* * *

**_OCTOBER 2013_**  

"Octavia! Are you going to even attempt to help? Changing the font style of the report does not count," Clarke snapped, exasperated.

 

It was senior year, and the pressure to keep up their grades was intense and coming in from all sides. Clarke was sleeping over at Octavia's that night because they had yet to make a significant dent in their complicated AP Chemistry problem set due the next morning.

 

"Nope," Octavia popped the "p" sound with a flourish before taking a swig of her Dr. Pepper. "It was your brilliant idea to sign up for the godforsaken class. I only agreed not to drop it because of the eye candy."

 

"Then why don't you go be lab partners with Lincoln," Clarke muttered darkly.

 

She pushed the frizzing tendrils of blonde hair away from her face as she checked her calculator again. Though on her feet, she was half bent over the Blakes' kitchen table, which was covered in laptops, textbooks, assorted notes and flashcards, and graphing calculators. During an afternoon of absolute, mind-numbing boredom when Mr. Shumway was lecturing on "molarity and the preparation of solutions," Octavia had taken a white out pen to hers. The end result: "Lincoln + Octavia is the only chemistry I need" had earned a deep eye roll from her best friend.

 

"But . . . I just don't understand!" Clarke suddenly erupted, pushing half her notes off the table in a burst of frustration. "None of these numbers are making any sense, and we've been at it for hours!"

 

"Trouble in academic paradise, Princess?" Bellamy wheeled around the corner, raising his eyebrows at her. "Don't let it get you down. You can always be a starving artist when you grow up."

 

He laughed and pulled a container of milk from the refrigerator, drinking straight out of the carton.

 

"You're so . . . ugh," she made a face at him, curling up a nearby piece of looseleaf and chucking it at his shoulder.

 

"Ohhh, Harvard can't wait to get its hands on someone with your vocabulary skills!"

 

Bellamy was still laughing when he made his way down the hall to his room, slamming the door behind him.

 

"Your brother is such an ass!" Clarke threw the words at Octavia.

 

She didn't look up from texting Lincoln.

 

"Yeah, yeah," she said, bored. "So you've told me."

 

That night, the storm was fierce. The apartment building shook with the ferocity of the thunder, while the sky beyond the bent blinds flashed an angry, mottled purple flecked with jagged clouds.

 

Clarke shot up in bed beside Octavia, a half-scream dying in her throat. The smoke was everywhere, pressing against her nose and mouth, suffocating her. Fire fell from the sky. And the plane, the plane was tumbling through the air like a shot bird. Half coated in a thin sheen of sweat, she glanced over at Octavia from her perch on the pull-out love seat in her friend's room. Always a heavy sleeper, Octavia merely mumbled something and rolled over.

 

Clarke still couldn't catch her breath. She felt the panic overtaking her slowly, bit by bit, moving as a numbing snake up her body. Forcing the tangled covers from her legs, she hoisted herself up and moved quickly and quietly toward the small kitchen in her long nightshirt. She was almost to the refrigerator door when the floorboard creaked audibly.

 

"Clarke?" his voice came a few moments later, low and full of sleep.

 

Gripping the cool refrigerator handle, she slouched against it. Her labored breathing was loud enough to be heard between the claps of thunder. Bellamy Blake was the last person she needed to deal with right now.

 

"What's wrong?" Bellamy stood near her back, took her wrist, and spun her around to face him.

 

Salty tears coursed down her cheeks, and she stared up at him helplessly, gasping. His face was calmer than she expected it to be. 

 

"I heard you scream. Nightmare, right? It's ok, breathe slow."

 

She jolted when his pointer and middle finger dug into the base of her spine and rode up the length of her back then down again as she fought for air.

 

Her eyes were questioning as he repeated the motion. The scent of something spicy emanated from the area around the small hollow at the base of his neck. The unexplainable urge to nestle into him and breathe him in seized her, but she pushed it down, remaining immobilized instead.

 

"In and out. That's good. In and out," Bellamy repeated the mantra to her until her breathing returned to its normal pace.

 

"You ok?" Bellamy posed the question to her casually enough, but there was a dose of concern in his eyes as he pulled at the collar of his white T-shirt. He opened the door the refrigerator and handed her a bottle of water.

 

"I keep seeing his face," Clarke mumbled, glancing up at him. "My dad. I see the flames. I see him burning."

 

The truth fell out of her mouth before she could stop it. She was internally berating herself for being so vulnerable when his whole demeanor had only grown broodier and more sarcastic lately when he spoke again.

 

"Come back to bed with me."

 

It was a simple command that caused her jaw to fall open.

 

"Wh-Wha-What?" she spluttered, almost spitting her most recent mouthful of water back at him.

 

"Just to sleep," he rolled his eyes. "Don't get excited. I, uh, I get nightmares, too."

 

Pale edges of the old burn mark near his neck peeked out from the edge of his shirt. They caught Clarke's attention. She was young at the time, but she remembered.

 

She sniffed and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, considering him.

 

"Ok," she agreed, uncertain where the surety came from.

 

Bellamy's room was neat and blue and full of books. There was more music than she would've expected, too. She hadn't been in here really since she helped them move in two years ago. She stood at the edge of his bed, shifting from foot to foot before stroking her bare calf with her heel. She lifted one shoulder up and stared at him.

 

"Uhh, how do we do this?"

 

He smiled slightly, pulling back the hunter green sheets with an attempt at gusto.

 

"You climb in there," he pointed to the left side of the bed dramatically, "put your head there," he gestured toward the untouched pillow, "close your eyes and fall asleep. Pretty simple concept."

 

She clucked her tongue, annoyed, but laughed despite herself. They climbed into his bed and laid down facing each other. It would have been strange, except -

 

"Jesus, Clarke! Your feet are freezing!"

 

She actually grinned at that, sliding the arch of her foot once down his scratchy leg and showing off most of her teeth.

 

"Deal with it."

 

They were quiet for a while, listening to the pounding rain hit the roof tiles. Clarke liked the way the gray light from outside filtered across his face and illuminated his freckles.

 

"How's your mom doing?" she asked when it struck her how personal looking at him was becoming. She laid a hand under her cheek and bent her knees, so her legs curved away from him.

 

"A little better . . . maybe. I don't know. I went last week. She knew who I was, so that's . . . a good sign I guess."

 

Clarke pressed her lips together and nodded.

 

"I'll go with you next time, uh, with you and Octavia . . . if you want."

 

The left side of his mouth turned upward a fraction.

 

"Ok, Princess."

 

In the pale pink of morning, she woke up with her back wedged into his chest, and his arm curled around her waist. For a moment, she panicked. But then the steady thump of his heart vibrated against her body, and she sighed, relaxing into him for a moment. When the glowing, digital clock on Bellamy's bedside table moved from 6:38 to 6:45 a.m., she pried his arm off her as delicately as possible and slipped away into the shower down the hall. They never talked about that night again.

 

* * *

  _ **DECEMBER 2017**_

Bellamy lands with a thud that sends the bead-like things inside the cloth scrambling over to her side. She hauls his arm up and settles her head right under his collarbone.

 

"Talk to me," she rasps, demanding.

 

"Guess we're doing this your way," he jokes. "What do you want me to say?"

 

His fingertips skim the length of her upper arm from her shoulder blade to her elbow. An electric current flows through the tissue as he moves.

 

"Anything. Just want . . . to hear you," Clarke finishes the thought raggedly.

 

"Easy, breathe. I got you. You're good," he murmurs to her. His eyes are so dark - were they always this dark?

 

Bellamy rearranges them, so Clarke is laying with her head on his stomach. Her exposed back heats up where it touches the side of his thigh, and she readjusts herself to remain decent. When she looks up, she can see the underside of his profile. He drums careful beats against her upturned palm with one finger and clears his throat.

 

"I know some Greek myths?"

 

Clarke just nods.

 

"Ok, so there's one about a musician named Orpheus. He was the son of Apollo and Calliope. She was one of the Muses. Anyway, the thing about Orpheus was his music was magical. When he played the lyre - which his dad taught him - his songs could cast spells on people and even calm wild animals."

 

"Sounds like a charmed life so far, so of course he's going to die a very painful death," Clarke cuts in as her heart rate slows.

 

Bellamy scoffs.

 

"Orpheus had a mortal wife, Eurydice, and he loved her. So when she died, he traveled down to the Underworld. He begged his great uncle Hades--"

 

"His uncle was the devil?" Clarke raises a skeptical eyebrow.

 

"No . . . not really," Bellamy sighs. "Hades didn't decide who died or anything - he sort of managed the Underworld. It's complicated. Anyway, Orpheus' dad was Apollo, son of Zeus, who was king of all the gods. Try to keep up."

 

"Sure, sure, whatever you say."

 

"So Orpheus begged Hades to allow his wife to come back to Earth as herself and not be reborn as someone else. Hades agreed - see, there's his soft side-"

 

Clarke snorts and runs a hand through her loose locks. The motion causes her breasts to rise, and she hears Bellamy's voice crack.

 

"--But he had one condition. Eurydice could follow her husband back to Earth, but during the trip, he couldn't turn around and look at her until they were safely back on Earth and out of the Underworld."

 

"And?" Clarke prompts.

 

"Well, Orpheus liked to worry. Maybe his wife needed his help because it wasn't exactly a pleasant experience to fly out of the Underworld. Or maybe Hades was lying, and she wasn't really going to be able to leave."

 

"Sounds like someone I know."

 

"Shut up, Clarke, and let me finish."

 

Clarke makes a "hmmphf" noise. 

 

"To reassure himself that everything was ok, Orpheus turned quickly to see his wife, and he lost her forever."

 

Clarke throws up both arms dramatically then lets them flop to her sides.

 

"That was depressing!" she complains. "What was the point?"

 

"The point is looking is powerful, Princess. It means something."

 

She turns away and stares at the door while a hot wave of guilty embarrassment courses through her insides.

 

"Where's Echo?" she mutters to the floor. "Won't she be missing you by now?"

 

"She left."

 

"Who is she?" 

 

"I don't know her that well. She teaches psychology down the hall from me. What's it to you, kid?"

 

The grin dies on his face when she reaches up and rests a palm against his cheek.

 

"Please stop. I can't anymore. I don't want the cocky, condescending version of you. And I can't with the silent treatment."

 

She hiccups. She's normally braver than this, but tonight she feels tired and broken by the weight that's still hanging between them like a suffocating curtain.

 

"I need you around . . . like you used to be," she says softly.

 

There's a few seconds' pause.

 

"I'm always gonna be in your life, Clarke. I'm kind of hard to get rid of. O will tell you," he laughs darkly.

 

She swallows hard.

 

"That's not what I mean, and you know it."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know the drill by now. Come flail with me in the comments if you feel so moved. xo


	6. Bursting in Air

**_JULY 2017_ **

It figured that Murphy and Miller's dodgy, ramshackle house on the wrong side of town would have the best view of the National Mall. Or, more specifically, the elaborate fireworks show that lit up the sky there for the Fourth of July. 

 

The party was raucous and cramped. Clarke narrowly avoided a drunk girl's elbow in her gut as she weaved her way into the kitchen in search of something to drink. The moisture in the air caught under her hairline and in the gap between her breasts. Pulling a can of soda from a sticky shelf, she made her way toward the oddly expansive back patio, wiping her palms off on her white shorts. 

Random couples she vaguely recognized and groups of chatty friends flocked around the place like seagulls on the shore in search of washed-up fish. Letting out a deep sigh, she scurried toward a gap along the wrought-iron railing far down near the grills. She propped her feet - clad in red converses to be festive - in the gaps between the bars on top of the stacked brick. Overhead, she could make out the beginnings of the constellations if she squinted. The buildings nearby were too bright to take in the stars fully. 

Somehow, Jasper had challenged Monty and Wells to a hot dog eating contest. The thought of watching that - of watching them inevitability need to throw up - didn't appeal to her. 

"Nice top," a grumbling voice said close enough to her shoulder for her to jump. 

"Bellamy! Don't do that!" she turned toward him with a hand over her chest. 

He gave her a lazy, apologetic smile and winked. 

"Nothing like wrapping yourself up in patriotism." 

He was mocking her and her artsy style; she knew it. Sequins bedazzled her tank top in the stars and stripes pattern of the American flag. Raven and Harper were wearing matching ones, and though they pulled it off with sexy nonchalance, Clarke felt a bit like a flamingo at the North Pole. 

"Nice to see you finally decided to put some clothes on," she shot back. 

He'd walked around most of the afternoon shirtless, claiming he was going swimming in the complex's pool but seemingly never making it there. 

It reminded her of the few times she'd actually been at the Blake's early enough to see him emerge, hair often wrecked, from his room before breakfast. Sometimes a girl would follow a few minutes later, looking a little embarrassed and out of place, but Clarke generally zeroed in on their small smiles and soft glows. Bellamy would offer them coffee and something they could eat on their way out the door - like a banana - and they were gone.  

These encounters earned him very pointed glares from Octavia and the "at some point, you have to stop screwing every pretty face" lecture. He would simply pour himself a bowl of cereal and flip her off.  Flopping dramatically onto the couch to eat and forgetting napkins entirely, he'd wipe a bit of milk from the corner of his mouth with a flick of his finger and flex of his bicep. More than once, she'd found herself wondering what it would be like to be one of Bellamy's girls. But then he'd stand up, casually scratch the skin of his toned stomach, run a hand across the top of her hair - totally messing it up - and the notion would evaporate. Well, sort of.  

Bellamy just shrugged and glanced down at his navy blue T-shirt. They fell into a mostly comfortable silence as he leaned against the railing next to her and contemplated the city sprawled out before them. Bellamy's bronzed, clasped hands rested only a few inches from hers, and she was trying not to look at them or the tendons that shifted in his forearm when he stretched.

It was embarrassing to admit, but the memory of that night in his room still lived in her brain three years later. There had been a strength in his body as he held her against him in his sleep and yet a softness when the tip of his nose unknowingly nudged into her neck. Blood flowed up into her face and pooled in her cheeks at the thought of it. Clarke took a noisy sip of her soda to combat her parched throat. 

"The fireworks should be good from here," she waved vaguely toward the golden glow of window lights and the pale, majestic outline of the Washington Monument in the distance. 

"Mmm," Bellamy agreed. 

He glanced sideways at her. 

"You want me to get you a drink for when the show starts?" 

"Oh, uh, no," she said quickly, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I mean, no thanks. I'm the DD tonight for Raven and Harper because the metro will be awful, and--"

"It'll be nearly impossible to get an Uber around here when the crowd starts leaving the Mall, got it," Bellamy finished her thought for her. 

"Right," she nodded, staring back off into the distance and wishing she could come up with something intelligent to say. 

They used to talk, well at least what Jasper called "platonically bicker" with each other easily and frequently enough. But a year into her time at American, he'd met Gina. The thing was, Gina was a genuinely nice person. Raven adored her from the coding and mechanical engineering classes they had together. 

But . . . she was kind of  _everywhere_  at once, and all of a sudden. One day she didn't exist in Clarke's world, and the next she was eating the last slice of pepperoni pizza at Arkadia, resting her chin on Bellamy's shoulder and giving him her doe eyes while he tried to pretend it was too sappy for him (he loved it; she knew it). Anyway, the dynamic never felt the same after Gina came into the picture. Clarke couldn't be sure - she'd never asked Bellamy or even Octavia - but she got the impression Gina watched her more carefully than she did the others. That her smiles were a little more forced whenever Clarke was around. 

But, to be fair, it was stupid to blame it all on Gina when the girl had never said anything even slightly off-color to her. When Gina graduated from American, she earned her place in a fantastic engineering program at NC State, and she and Bellamy agreed they just didn't want to put themselves through the long distance thing. According to Octavia, it was a perfectly amicable breakup. They were always "so damn polite with each other" as she put it. 

For Clarke, premed was challenging and often all-consuming right from the start, leaving her with less free time and more teeth clenching at night. Sure, she'd gone out with a few people. Octavia practically threw Atom at her, while Raven delivered up the ever-sarcastic Kyle, but neither of them lasted long. There were also a few encounters with a girl named Lexa who spent their last date together sulking into a frothy cider about how much she missed her ex, Costia. That one didn't end well, and Clarke didn't feel guilty about getting up in the middle of the onslaught and leaving her with the bill. 

She heard Bellamy laugh to himself and gripped the rail tighter, shaken from her musings. 

"What?" she narrowed her eyes at him, trying to ignore the way one of his stubborn curls fell across his forehead.  

"I was just thinking you're always the good princess, aren't you? Always doing the right thing?" he quirked up an eyebrow at her, knocking his hip gently into her side. 

A shot of heat pulsed into her stomach. 

"That's not true!" she argued, trying to keep a grip on her dignity. "I can be fun." 

He bit back a smile. 

"I'm sure you can be." 

"Bellamy!" 

"What?" 

"You're so . . . " she rolled her eyes. 

"I keep telling you to use your words, Princess." 

"Hey, Clarke!" Murphy's sharp cry broke in before she could respond. "We're gonna play beer pong. Be my partner? I know we'll dominate," he grinned at her. 

She blinked a few times. 

"I'm not drinking tonight," she hedged. 

"It's all right," Murphy said easily. "I'll drink for us both." 

* * *

Bellamy stood across the polished wood table from her, bouncing the ping pong ball annoyingly, making it jump higher and higher before they began. 

"For good luck, baby," a tall, pretty girl with chiseled features grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled his mouth to hers with a practiced flourish. 

"Thanks, Roma," he smirked cockily at her when she pulled away. 

"Jesus, another one?" Clarke hissed to Raven, who was standing nearby with Wells, before she could help herself. 

Raven shot her a quick, shrewd look that she absolutely missed. 

"You know how he is," she shrugged back. 

"Uh-huh," Clarke kept her blue eyes fixed on the man before her as she grabbed Jasper's beer out of nowhere and began to drink. 

"Hey!" he cried out, but Raven shushed him. 

"I'll get you another one," she promised. 

"I thought you weren't drinking, Princess?" Bellamy's eyes grew dark as they challenged her. 

"Things change," she replied, bending her knees, flicking her wrist gracefully and sinking her ball into one of the opposing Solo cups. 

Murphy whooped with delight. 

* * *

"Murphy, no offense, but this is getting ridiculous. You like Emori. Emori likes you. Why don't you just ask her out already?" Clarke's sigh made the hair curling around her face flutter. 

 

They were right inside the pantry, and it seemed all the beer was finally going to Murphy's head. 

 

"She's . . . too . . . I don't know . . . " he banged his fist into the wood shelf carrying several cans of soup, and Clarke jumped. 

 

"Amazing for you?" she teased. "I already know that. What's your next excuse?" 

 

He glared at her. 

 

"You're not understanding my pain here, Griffin." 

 

"What pain? All I see here are endless opportunities. Invite her to dinner and be done with the angst already." 

 

Her voice sounded a little louder even to her own ears. Murphy continued to look sulky, kicking his foot into the bottom shelf. 

 

"Nah, I just don't think she's into me. It's a lost cause," he huffed. 

 

"She showed up here tonight, didn't she?" Clarke half-yelled, frustration finally getting the better of her. "And WHO invited her? I swear to God, you are the worst when it comes to seeing what's right in front of your face, kid." 

 

Murphy's low chuckle made her narrow her eyes. 

 

"Sure about that, Clarke?" 

 

She blinked. 

 

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" 

 

Murphy rolled his eyes. 

 

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Thanks for the pep talk as always."

 

He pulled her grumbling form into a half-hug just as the door swung fully open behind them. 

 

"Oh, sorry!" Bellamy's grin was oddly feral as his eyes swept between Murphy and Clarke. "Didn't know I was interrupting anything." 

 

A moment later, Roma nearly crashed into his shoulder with a high-pitched giggle. 

 

"You're not," Clarke stepped away from Murphy swiftly, moving her hands to her hips and narrowing her eyes. 

 

"Whatever you say, Princess. Don't do anything I wouldn't do," he flashed his eyebrows at her, and then they were gone. 

 

"Uuughh!" Clarke let out the cry before she could help herself. "He's always so--"

 

"Perfect for you?" Murphy asked innocently. 

 

She shot him a look of deep annoyance. 

 

"That's not even funny! He'd never be the type of guy I'd go for, and I'm sure as hell not his type, either."  

 

"Right," Murphy said crisply, leaning casually into the wall and blinking back at her. "Just tell me if I'm the only one taking in the irony of this moment?"

 

"Fuck you, Murphy." 

 

* * *

 

The third beer was a mistake, granted. She never could hold her alcohol as well as her friends. So it probably had something to do with the way her eyes fixated on his longish, dirty blonde hair and strong chin. He was muscular and angular and in her speech & debate class last year. They often went up against each other, especially when the subject matter was American politics. His reasoning was unusually sound, and half the time she started to move him over to her side before their professor called time. She liked the way his fingers clenched around the podium when he got passionate about something.  

That night, his usually calculating blue eyes were full of humor when they landed on her approaching him. 

"Having a good night, Clarke?" 

"You know, it is what it is," she said noncommittally, sliding onto the couch next to him. 

He was all spread out in that total guy way, arms wrapped around the back of the couch, while his legs sprawled wide open in front of him. 

"So you mean it's better now that you found me?" he grinned cheekily. 

"Yeah, sure, we'll go with that," she shoved his shoulder but laughed, throwing her head back on the worn leather. 

"I like your look tonight," Clarke said absently, running a swift finger from his chest to stomach. 

His white button-down was half open, the sleeves blue and spattered with white stars. His shorts were a burnt red, frayed a bit at the edges. 

He cast a sidelong glance at her before smiling. 

"Thanks. You've got some sense of style yourself." 

"Fireworks are starting soon," she opened her eyes a little wider before glancing away playfully, biting her lip. "And you haven't tried to argue with me once tonight. Wanna go watch with me?" 

He ran a hand lightly down her tanned forearm before capturing her fingers and pulling her up to her feet with him. 

"Absolutely." 

* * *

Clarke felt warm and happier than she had a few hours ago. Jasper allowed her a few drags of his joint while they watched the sky explode in rainbows and glitter and shine. And when she glanced over to see Bellamy's broad shoulders a few people away, she was a little surprised to find him staring right back at her with an unreadable expression on his face. But she just wrapped her arms around her viewing buddy's waist and enjoyed how he smelled like the ocean. 

* * *

Miller and Murphy's den was at the end of a long hallway and full of squashy furniture and an incredibly large flat-screen. She let speech & debate boy trace his fingers down her thigh as he swore the Democrats would sweep the midterm elections with ease. She told him about the painting class she was looking forward to taking in the fall while he toyed with the ends of her hair.

"...I didn't think I'd have the opportunity with so many science classes."

"Clarke?" 

"Hmmm?" she cooed, looking up into his eyes. 

"Shhh," and he sealed his lips over hers. 

* * *

The thing was, the door was open a crack when Bellamy walked by on his way from the bathroom. 

"No, I don't want to. Not here," a breathy female voice was saying. 

He froze. He knew that voice. 

He had the presence of mind to peer into the dimly lit room just to be sure. A bulky guy was positioned over Clarke on a couch, her knees were up around his hips. He was peeling up her shirt slowly, bending forward to kiss her stomach. 

"Stop it, Roan! I'm serious," she tugged on his hair. 

He paused long enough to look up at her with a smirk.

"Are you sure, baby? We could have fun," his voice lilted playfully. 

The wooden door hit the wall with a slam so loud the walls  vibrated with it. 

"Yes, she's sure. Get the fuck off her," he growled, stalking into the room and grabbing for the guy's shoulder. 

They both whirled around at the intrusion. Clarke's shoulder strap was falling down, and her lips seemed swollen. 

"Hey, hey, easy man!" Roan crawled carefully off Clarke, holding up his hands. "Who the hell are you? We were just hanging out!" 

"He's nobody," Clarke's tone was cold and final. He didn't like how her hand wrapped around this guy's bicep. "Bellamy - get out! I don't need your help!" 

He just stood there, fists clenched at his side, staring right back at her. 

"Get. Out," she pointed once more toward the door. 

* * *

**_AUGUST 2017_ **

"Of course  _you_   _would_  land the fantastic lawyer who could moonlight as an underwear model," Octavia sighed, flopping down on the teal papasan chair beside her bed. 

Clothes were scattered everywhere as if a hurricane had just blown through. Clarke shook her head listlessly, picking up a wraparound skirt than tossing it aside before reaching for a fancier sheath dress colored a rich shade of violet. 

"He's not a lawyer yet!" she laughed. "He just started law school!"

Octavia raised a dark eyebrow.

"I don't hear you arguing the other point." 

Clarke's laugh was breathy and high. 

"Nothing to argue." 

She turned on her heel as a medium-sized teddy bear collided with her shoulder blades. 

"O! What the hell?" 

Octavia pushed out her lower lip and tucked her knees toward her chest. 

"It's not fair," is all she said. "Lincoln and I won't be able to double date with you guys." 

Clarke smiled at that and walked over to her friend, putting a warm hand on her knee.

"You're going to France! It's going to be fabulous! Lincoln and I will be here when you get back. It's just a few months." 

"Hmmph," Octavia sighed, picking at her chipping fingernail paint. "You better Snap me all the time." 

"Of course," Clarke said sweetly, turning back to the mountain of clothes behind them. "Now help me pick something out for this law school orientation party. I need your Blake flair! Nothing I have seems . . . fancy enough. And I  _know_  Roan's going to look amazing." 

"You can't seriously be going out with that asshole," Bellamy's booming voice sounded from the doorway. 

Clarke's eyes shot to his, and hot anger pulsed in her veins. These were the first words he'd spoken to her in more than a month. 

"Why the fuck not?" she snarled back.

Octavia glanced between them in confusion. 

"He's too old for you. Too experienced," he said darkly, crossing his arms over his chest. 

"Bellamy, you can't tell Clarke who to--"

"He's a year younger than you!" 

Bellamy stood still for a moment as the impact of her words sunk in. A tinge of rose-pink built over Clarke's ears and throat, but he was too busy spluttering to really notice. 

"That's . . . that's not the point!" 

"Then what is the point? Dear God, tell me what the actual point is because I really don't know!" she dramatically waved her hands about - one clasping a stiletto. 

"The point is he . . . you . . . you don't need to be with a guy who does drugs." 

The line between her eyebrows deepened as heaviness cloaked the room. 

"What are you  _talking_  about? He doesn't do drugs! You don't even know him!"

"I saw you at that party. I know enough," he bit back, voice dropping to such a deep level it gave her pause. 

Clarke scoffed, waving him off. 

"It was just a little pot. And it was Jasper's anyway. I'm a big girl, Bellamy. I can handle it." 

"You think you can," he grunted. 

"You know what? I'm sick of this!" Clarke stomped her foot before marching to where he stood until they were only a few inches apart. 

She angled her neck up and stared him down. 

"You've been an ass about this for weeks, and it's crazy! It's not your business who I go out with, ok? I can make my own choices. It's not my fault you jumped in with your bullshit heroics because you misread a situation!"  

"Guys . . . come on," Octavia tried hesitantly from beside the bed, rubbing her hand up and down her arm. 

Bellamy's face hardened, and Clarke watched his nostrils flare. 

"You know what? You're right, Princess! You're not my sister. I don't have to care about the stupid shit you pull. You wanna self-destruct? Be my guest! I'm tired of getting stuck with the damage control. I'm out!" 

He stalked off down the hall leaving Clarke silent. 

Octavia walked to her friend slowly, carefully reaching out a hand to her shoulder. 

"That wasn't awkward at all," she said before returning to the pile of clothes. "We've got a lot of things to put away here, which gives you plenty of time to tell me what the actual fuck that was about." 

Clarke looked away, wrapping her arms around herself protectively. 

"It's nothing," she said in faux nonchalance. 

"Oh no, you're talking, Griffin. So start at the beginning," Octavia chucked a half-sheer wrap at her to go with the dress. 

Her mouth fell progressively farther open as Clarke spilled the story from the Fourth of July. 

"And you never told me!" she shrieked, high-pitched, when Clarke finished. 

"Nothing to tell," Clarke absently picked a thread from the bed. "You heard it yourself. Bellamy thinks he knows what's best for me, and now we don't talk." 

Octavia's face was full of a sudden sadness Clarke didn't understand. 

"I . . . umm . . . I don't really think that's it, Clarke," she said quietly. "I think you're missing the point." 

"I don't want to talk about this again, ok? Please?" Clarke's eyes pleaded with her. 

And Octavia, bless her, never brought it up again. 


	7. Chanted Loudly, Chanted Lowly

  ** _DECEMBER 2017_**

 

"Why now?" Bellamy asks quietly. 

 

"What do you mean?" Clarke blinks at him. 

 

The buzz of the florescent lights in Arkadia's back room sound overhead. One is slowly starting to die, flickering every minute or so. 

  

 

"Why do you suddenly want me around now?"

 

She sits up, struggling to zip her dress back up. 

 

Bellamy's hands offer pleasant heat as they push hers away and catch the zipper, tugging it upward. He sweeps a finger against the base of her neck before pulling back, and it makes her shiver. 

 

"I never didn't want you around," she says to the clasped hands in her lap. 

 

"Huh. That's not really the way I remember it." 

 

She can't be sure, but it sounds like there's a touch of humor in his voice. 

 

"I didn't think you were ever paying much attention anyway," she mumbles, tucking her loose hair behind her ear. "You were always so wrapped up in your  _personal_   _life_." 

 

He purses his lips, but his appraising look is back, raking over her. It makes her skin tingle. 

 

"I tried to apologize to you," he says gruffly at last. "You didn't want to hear it." 

 

"Because I don't think anyone ever taught you how to do it right." 

 

He smirks outright at that, cradling his hands behind his head and stretching out on the bean bag chair, so his legs unravel before him like young trees. 

 

"And then we fought again," he continues almost solemnly.

 

"And then we fought again," she agrees quietly, glancing up swiftly into his eyes before looking away. 

 

They're solidly focused on her face she realizes with a dancing jolt in her stomach. 

 

"It's what we do, Clarke," he brushes lazily along her arm. 

 

"And that's . . . how you want it to be?" she asks, pressing her hand into his knee.

 

A delicate tension blankets them once more, the one that seems to ebb and flow between them like a translucent bubble, capturing and releasing them at will. She leans in a little, not caring if he glances down the front of her dress. But he doesn't.

 

"I . . . I, uh, hadn't given it a lot of thought," he clears his throat nervously. 

 

Her face falls.

 

"All right, Bellamy. You win," she sighs. "I don't want to play anymore," she rises a little unsteadily to her feet, shaking her right leg that's fallen asleep. "Happy birthday to me." 

 

* * *

**_SEPTEMBER 2017_ **

She was so distraught as she fought her way onto the crowded train that she didn't really notice the dark-haired man bent over and ruffling through his bag until she dropped into the last open seat across from his. 

 

"What's the matter, Princess? Too distracted to stop yourself from sitting next to the enemy?" 

 

Clarke's eyes snapped away from the aisle where a redheaded woman was trying to maneuver a tuba past sharp elbows and knees and turned to take in Bellamy. She considered her options, but the outlook was bleak. The metro was jammed, and she preferred not to stand for the next half hour. 

 

"I have bigger problems right now than worrying about sitting next to you," she snapped. 

 

Bellamy considered her for a moment, running a hand through his hair in a gesture so familiar she could sketch it from memory. 

 

"All right. Despite your totally outrageous behavior lately, I'll bite. What's the problem?" 

 

Clarke rubbed her tongue along her teeth before her shoulders slumped. They've barely spoken at all since the blowup in Octavia's room. He was looking at her earnestly enough, almost like he gave a damn. 

 

"Roan broke up with me," she answered flatly, smoothing out the edges of her blonde waves absently until her natural oils gave them shine. 

 

Bellamy sat back, surprise coasting over his face. 

 

"Shit, Clarke. I'm sorry." 

 

"Please," she scoffed. "You love it. This is your dream." 

 

He seemed to want to say something but swallowed it. The train rattled loudly, and someone nearby started requesting money, thanking "the fine people of D.C. for everything they were doing for him and his family." A minute later, Bellamy tried again. 

 

"Look, I didn't like how he was treating--"

 

"Jesus, not again! We're not doing this here, all right?" she hissed wildly at him, collapsing against the slick window where nothing but bits of brick wall flicked past. "You were wrong, and it was totally uncalled for!" 

 

"What do you want me to say, Clarke?" Pink splotches created a colorful backdrop for Bellamy's freckles. "I'm sorry I tried to get involved in your personal life, ok? Are you happy now?" 

 

"No, I'm not happy because you don't mean it!" 

 

"Clarke--"

 

He reached out to touch her knee lightly, but she jolted it away. 

 

"Roan's a good guy. He'd never do that to someone," she said darkly. "It's my fault we broke up anyway." 

 

Bellamy smoothed down his navy blazer, and, eventually, she spoke again. 

 

"He didn't think he was going to get an internship next summer at a good law firm. All of his friends were getting them already." 

 

"Sounds like a real crisis," Bellamy snorted. 

 

Clarke rolled her eyes.

 

"Everything always comes easy for you with school, Bellamy. You just flash a smile, and all the professors fall all over themselves trying to help the smart kid with the troubled past." 

 

For a moment, she was sure she'd gone too far. She saw the characteristic jaw clench of anger in him. But he just flashed his eyebrows at her and with a quick shake of his hand, urged her on. 

 

"My mom knows this lawyer Marcus Kane pretty well through Wells' dad--"

 

"The guy who's handling Diana Sydney's death row case?" Bellamy asked, eyes widening. 

 

"Yeah . . . how did you--"

 

"I read the news, Princess." 

 

"Whatever. Anyway, Kane said he'd interview Roan, but Roan got all upset, and he told me he wanted to get his own opportunity. He said he didn't want charity. He was going on and on about how it wasn't honorable or something." 

 

"Doesn't he get that it had to be done that way?" Bellamy blinked in disbelief. "Everything's about connections, and you were handing him an opportunity on a silver platter!" 

 

"Exactly!" 

 

Clarke found herself nodding along despite herself, relieved someone finally understood.

 

"That's exactly what I told him!" 

 

She scooted a little closer to him unconsciously. He was wearing his dark glasses, and they made him look decidedly professorial. 

 

A small smile played on his lips as he watched her. 

 

"Well, it probably all worked out for the best," he crossed one ankle over the other and leaned back in his plastic seat. 

 

"Yeah? How do you figure?" Clarke asked wryly. 

 

She buttoned her coat as the train approached her stop. 

 

"One of my coworkers knows Roan's family," Bellamy said casually, but there was tension in his shoulders. "They were a big deal where she grew up in Upstate New York near Canada. Anyway, rumor has it his mother, Nia, was personally involved in that Mount Weather coal mining explosion in West Virginia last winter. His family co-own it or something and wanted to collect on the insurance." 

 

"What?" Clarke says, horrified. "Dozens of people died in that thing!" 

 

"I know," Bellamy agrees grimly. "That's why-"

 

"How dare you accuse his family of that! How dare you  _look into his background_!" she erupted unexpectedly, causing a few nearby passengers to turn and stare pointedly. "What the hell is wrong with you?" 

 

She launched to her feet, gripping the silver rail to stay balanced as the train lurches. A moment later, she was pushing her way toward the door, leaving Bellamy speechless in her wake. 

 

* * *

**_DECEMBER 2017_ **

He watches her take two steps away from him before he struggles out of the bean bag chair. His voice is loud and authoritative when he uses it. 

 

"Clarke, stop. Come on. It doesn't have to be like this." 

 

She turns around and levels an ice blue stare at him. 

 

"It's always like this! No matter what. We just don't - work." 

 

She throws out her hands in exasperation, glancing down and realizing her shoes are still lying out in the hallway. 

 

Bellamy looks pained for a moment, but then his expression takes back on the blank stoicism she knows so well. 

 

"I wasn't trying to control you, you know," he says after a long beat. "With Roan I mean. I know I don't have the right - I'm not your brother or anything. I just . . . I want the best for you, Princess. You have to at least see that by now?" 

 

Her heart feels like it's ripping a bit at the hesitant question in his voice. There's simultaneously a wave of nausea at the word "brother." No, though they spent so much time around each other since childhood, he most certainly never felt like her brother. She clenches her fist at the memory of him pressing against her in the hallway, definitely aroused. Bellamy's eyes blacken, and they seem to plead earnestly to her without a word. At least she knows, in that moment a few minutes ago, she didn't imagine he might actually want her. Something about that knowledge gives her a dose of courage. 

 

"It wasn't a brother I was looking for, Bellamy," she tilts her head and raises an eyebrow at him. 

 

He nods slowly. His Adam's apple bobbles while he digs his hands into his pockets. 

 

"Uh," he fidgets almost imperceptibly, glancing down before looking at her from underneath the curls that fall across his eyes. "Are you sure you know what you're looking for?"

 

Clarke draws herself up to her full height, and takes a couple steps closer to him. 

 

"I think I have a pretty good idea at this point," she shoots him a small smile, just one side of her mouth curving upward. He mirrors it. 

 

"So, it's still my birthday," she says casually, tapping on her knee. Her next move definitely causes something akin to desire to flash across Bellamy's face. She holds out a carefully trembling hand. "Come dance with me?" 

 

* * *

_**DECEMBER 2012** _

For as far back as Clarke's life had Blakes in it, she knew Aurora baked Bellamy a birthday cake no matter what. It was often an impressively tall sugar concoction with elaborate frosting, each layer bursting with tangy lemon, sweet raspberry, smooth vanilla, and rich chocolate. 

 

When he turned nineteen though, no cake was forthcoming. So she spent all morning whizzing around the kitchen, driving her mother crazy, as puffs of flour coated the counters and gobs of batter fell from the propped-up beaters back into the mixing bowl. Her father served as the official taste tester, biting small corners off the golden food and telling her she'd outdone herself. 

 

It was raining when she knocked at his apartment door, shifting nervously from foot to foot. The cake was simple and a little squashed, but it was stuffed with the fruit jam he preferred and coated in buttercream frosting. 

 

"Hi, Clarke," he said when he opened the door. "What are you doing here?" 

 

"Happy Birthday!" Clarke said as brightly as possible, presenting him her Saran-wrapped creation. 

 

"Hmm?" Bellamy glanced down at the package being thrust on him before taking it from her as if in a daze. 

 

"You . . . made me a cake?" he asked, scratching absently at his cheek while the fingers of his right hand dug into the platter securely. 

 

"Uh yeah. It's tradition," Clarke said shyly. Her ponytail swished as she stepped over the threshold and through the door Bellamy held open for her. 

 

He put the cake down on a nearby table and turned back to her. 

 

"I, um, well, thanks a lot, Princess," he offered quietly. 

 

She saw a few tears threatening to spill over. Clarke wasn't sure what exactly possessed her, but a moment later, she had her arms folded around Bellamy's neck. He hunched over a bit, nose against her neck as one hand cradled the back of her head and the other landed firmly on her waist, pulling her closer.   


	8. Priorities

**_OCTOBER 2017_ **

It was a Thursday morning in early October, and Clarke was rushing to finish her makeup to make it to the metro in time for biochemistry. So far, senior year was brutal. The local news hummed along in the background as she dabbed her eyelashes with waterproof mascara. 

   

"Shit!" she hissed when her fast-moving elbow inadvertently collided with an open jar of foundation powder. It fell in a heap onto her carpet, brown dust clinging noticeably to the white fibers. 

"In other news this morning, Nia Winters has been found guilty of criminal negligence in the Mount Weather Coal Plant explosion which killed 49 people outside Bluemont, Virginia last spring. Winters was the majority stockholder in the company, and . . . "  

Clarke clutched the side of her dresser tightly as a lead weight sunk in her stomach. Her breathing hitched as she stared at her pale face in the mirror. 

* * *

Harper was out to dinner with Monty when the booming knock came on their apartment door. 

"Clarke! Can you get it?" Raven yelled from the kitchen. "I'm in the middle of cooking this stir fry!" 

She was singing loudly and off-key to an ancient Alanis Morissette song, half-chopped vegetables scattered all over the counter behind her as she stirred a pot of rice on the stove. 

"Ugh, I don't want to deal with anyone right now," Clarke sighed dramatically, shoving up from the table engulfed by her art history notes.

She had a big test Wednesday, and she was barely prepared for it. That was mostly because she'd spent the majority of her weekend in an emotionally draining tailspin with both Roan and her mother. He was understandably distraught about Nia and the horrors she'd let unfold for the workers she was supposed to keep safe. The media was camped out in front of his family's home 24/7, and when he'd called her Friday night looking for comfort, he was finding solace at the bottom of a gin bottle. 

"How could she do this? How could she?" he kept repeating numbly to himself as she'd stroked his hair, his head on her lap on the living room couch. 

Clarke was in the middle of sighing sympathetically when he'd blurted out--

"I knew the shit she pulled was cagey as fuck sometimes, but this?! This! Doesn't she realize she ruined my life, too?" 

Clarke snapped to alertness. 

"You're telling me you're not upset about all the people that are dead because of her?" she asked in disgusted disbelief. 

"What?" Roan replied, blearily rubbing his neck while the TV cast flicking light around the dim room. 

"'Course I am," he returned. "But she didn't even think about how here I am trying to break into criminal law, and my own damn mother is a criminal!" 

"How incredibly ironic," she hissed. 

"You're telling me," Roan sighed, completely missing the point. "I could really use some stress relief right now, baby," he mumbled into the softness of her stomach, hand wandering up toward the underside of her breast. 

"You know what?" Clarke let her legs fall with a thud to to the floor from their place resting on the coffee table. The motion sent Roan sliding abruptly away from her. "Thanks for that. It cleared things up once and for all. I really can't do this anymore! My mother was right."

"What the hell are you talking about, Clarke?" he asked, twisting over and reaching out to cover the top of her thigh with a large hand. She immediately smacked it away.

"We have different priorities, Roan!" it was hard not to shriek. "I'm trying to get into medical school to save lives, and you're not concerned when your family is responsible for taking them! Doesn't that seem a little problematic to you? You haven't said one thing about all those poor families all night!" 

She yanked on her coat angrily, a stunned Roan blinking at her as if in a fog, his forearm pulled up near his face and partly obstructing his eyes. He made no motion to follow her when she slammed his door shut and took off down the stairs into the chilly night air. 

It was two days later, and she still looked like shit. Her blonde hair was frazzled and piled high on top of her head in a bun. She wore stretchy gray leggings and an oversized University sweatshirt, her feet in blue and gold striped fuzzy socks. Demolishing a pint of Cookies & Cream while marching back and forth across the living room listing off to a very patient Harper every obnoxious thing Roan had ever done in their three-month relationship had only gotten her angrier. 

"And the thing is, the thing is . . . he  _knew_. How does he always  _know_? He told me this would happen!" she threw up her arms as Harper clucked in a cross between sympathy and confusion. 

"Sorry, Clarke. I'm losing you. Who knew? Who told you what?" 

Clarke's lips twisted as she looked off through the window at their decent view of their complex's pool, now covered with a tarp dotted with red and brown leaves. 

"Bellamy," she said quietly, twisting her hair tie around her wrist. "He always knows when I'm about to do something stupid before I do." 

She flopped into their plush, old couch next to Harper, who gave her a long and searching look. 

"Bellamy warned you about Roan you mean?" 

"Yeah," Clarke huffed, staring determinedly at the TV screen as she flicked through her Netflix queue. 

"So you two fight about your relationship now, huh?" Harper said, her voice still quiet and neutral. 

"Mmm," Clarke grunted noncommittally with a jerk of her head, selecting something called Circle. 

"And he's been, uh, worried about you?" 

"He's been a dick. It wasn't his business," Clarke said peevishly. 

Harper swallowed, reaching forward to grab a handful of trail mix from the bag on the table. She side-eyed her friend. "You're sure he wasn't jeal-"

"No," Clarke said with ringing finality. "He and his harem are perfectly happy." 

"Ok," Harper said with false breeziness, settling back on the pillows. 

Harper caught Raven's intense eye roll from where the brunette sat at the dining room table repairing an old radio for a class project. 

* * *

"How do you think it's been dealing with you?" Raven mumbled as another sharp rap hit the door. 

"I heard that!" Clarke shouted as her socks slid across the linoleum, and she threw the door back with a flourish. 

"Oh . . . uh . . . hi," she offered weakly to the disgruntled figure of Bellamy Blake. 

His arms were wrapped tightly around a large, cardboard box, and he was wearing that old leather coat she liked. 

"Great to see you, too," he said snidely, shoving the box toward her. 

She reached forward to grasp it, staggering slightly under its weight. 

"What's this?" she raised an eyebrow, trying to ignore the fire climbing into her face. 

 _He was right about everything. He was right about everything_. The thought kept playing on repeat in her mind. 

"It's all the extra shit you left laying around when you moved in here," he jerked his head toward the living room behind her. He could make out Raven's dark head poke quickly around the wall before it darted back toward the kitchen again. "Octavia kept it all for you and told me to bring it over before she left for France. So here I am," his smile was cold. "Following orders. You can keep track of your own junk now, Princess."  

"Octavia's been gone for over a month," Clarke narrowed her eyes at him. 

"I've been busy. You're welcome." 

He turned to go, and in a rush of sudden, emotional, well . . . something, she dropped the box and leapt forward to grab at his shoulder. It fell as he swung back around, and she let her hand glide away quickly.

"Yeah?" Bellamy said shortly. "What else can I do for you?" 

She searched his eyes for a moment, seeking out any stray flicker of warmth. It was hard to find. 

"Bellamy . . . I-I . . . well, I'm sorry," she bit her lower lip. 

"For what?" he said blankly. 

"For lashing out at you on the metro a few weeks ago. It was rude, and I was wrong." 

She fidgeted with her hands, twisting them together. 

"Ok. Have a good day, Clarke." 

His back was toward her, and his hand jumped to the railing so quickly that she barely had time to process it. She jolted forward once more, fingers locking around his wrist. He stiffened but didn't jerk away. His skin felt hot despite the dropping fall temperature. 

" _Bellamy,_ please," she said softer this time to his freckles. He tilted his head to the side. 

"What?" 

"You were right about Nia Winters. You have to know that. It's been all over the news." 

"It's not my business," he said stiffly. 

She made a face at him, her fingers finally sliding away from his wrist. 

"Come on, Bellamy. I'm sorry. I was having a bad day and shouldn't have yelled at you." 

He took one step back up onto the landing, so he was significantly taller than her once more. She had the urge to step back but fought it. 

"You screamed at me like a nutcase then left," he accused. 

"Yeah, I know," she scuffed her sock along the edge of a sharp pebble, looking past him toward the brick wall. 

"And you think that's ok when I was just trying to help? After everything I'd already seen?" he pressed. 

A few moments of silence passed. 

"No," Clarke dragged out the sound finally. "But I needed you to be--"

"What?" he stared at her hard enough that if she was a plant, she might have withered away on the spot. 

"Supportive," the word cracked as it slipped out. 

"Of you and Roan?" he asked in disbelief. 

She blinked.

"Well, yeah." 

"Why?" 

He raked a frustrated hand through his hair, and she had the wild urge to step into the space next to his chest. She shook her head a little, dispelling the thought. 

"Because I care what you think, ok?" she steeled her voice, blue eyes returning to his finally. 

"Why?" he demanded again, leaning over her a fraction, a touch of anger in his voice. 

"Because . . . because I've known you forever, and I don't know . . . I trust your opinion about people." 

"Yeah," he laughed meanly. "You really trusted my opinion about him when I had one. You don't need me, Princess. You don't listen to a damn thing I say." 

She looked pained. 

"Don't be that way," she pleaded. 

"Do you trust him?" 

The question surprised her. 

"Um, no. . . No, I don't. I was wrong about Roan, ok? Is that what you want to hear? I was wrong, and you were right." 

He crinkled up his nose and shrugged one shoulder. The wall was not coming down one inch.  

"It's whatever at this point." 

He took a step back toward the staircase.

"I trust you though," she said it so quietly to her fuzzy socks it was almost like she didn't say a thing at all. 

His expression had less lines and more curves when she looked up again. But then a shadow passed over his chiseled cheekbones as his eyes swept over her body. 

"Well that's nice," his breath tickled across her forehead. 

"What do you want from me?" she said it in an outcry that was suddenly desperate. Her heart thudded like mad against her ribs. 

"I don't want a thing from you, Princess," he replied slowly. His caramel colored hand cradled her chin for an instant, thumb caressing the edge of her lip. "Not a thing. Just like you don't want anything from me." 

Her breath hitched audibly as her eyes widened. 

"I-" 

"Gotta go, Princess. I'm picking Roma up from work." 

She stood there like a statue for a full minute after his dark head disappeared from view. It was a brisk gust of wind that chilled her bones enough to send her scurrying back into the cozy apartment. The radio within was conspicuously silent. 

"How much of that did you hear?" Clarke darted into the kitchen, hands on her hips. 

"I don't know what you're talking about," Raven retorted, her hand gently pushing vegetables around in the pan in front of her. "My stir fry has my full attention."  


	9. Near Miss

 

_"_ _Tonight--_   

_Take me to the other side,_

_Sparks fly like the Fourth of July._

_Just take me to the other side-_

_I see that sexy look in your eyes._

_And I know we ain’t friends anymore,_

_If we walk down this road,_

_We’ll be lovers for sure._

_So, tonight, kiss me like it’s do or die,_

_And take me to the other side."_

_~Jason Derulo, "The Other Side"_

**_MARCH 2017_**  

"Do we really have to play this?" Jasper whined as he dropped cross-legged to the floor of Harper and Raven's apartment. "It's not like it's your 13th birthday, Harps." 

 

"But I never got to play when I turned 13, either. That's the point!" Harper pouted. The body glitter on her arms sparkled as she moved into the light. "Humor me, please?" 

 

Murphy rolled his eyes and dug his hand into a purple polka dot bowl full of pistachios. "I guess it'll be her 21st birthday when we get to have the real fun then," he muttered to Miller, whose beanie was slung low over his brown eyes with a beer perched on his knee. 

 

"You don't know how to have fun anyway, Murphy!" shouted Raven gleefully as she strolled into the room with a heaping platter of chips and salsa. 

 

He flipped her off but she just chuckled and blew him a kiss before settling in next to Wells on the love seat. Clarke laughed at them and leaned her back against the cushioned couch behind her.   

 

"Careful, Reyes, you never know where that bottle will land when you spin it," Murphy smirked. 

 

Wells frowned a little but continued his conversation with Monty somewhere to the left of Clarke. She felt good tonight. It was the day before the official start of spring break, and all her major tests were done. Summer was coming soon, and then there was nothing between her and medical school except senior year. 

 

"The odds are in my favor that won't happen," Raven argued back agreeably enough. "But I look forward to seeing your  _wild_  side at Harper's next birthday," she wiggled her eyebrows exaggeratedly. 

 

"Or maybe at my birthday," Clarke interjected, grinning at Raven. 

 

"Not possible," Raven said. "Murphy has one general mood, and it's annoyed." 

 

Clarke missed Murphy's response as Bellamy emerged from the kitchen with a drink in his hand and humor in his eyes. 

 

"Don't worry, Princess," he said as he settled in next to Miller. "When you turn 21, I'll make sure it's an event to remember." 

 

"Really? You will?" her eyes widened in surprise as she talked louder over her friends' chatter. 

 

He shrugged back. 

 

"Sure, why not? Least I could do when you baked me a cake. I'll buy you a drink and everything."  

His wide smile displayed his white teeth, and her entire chest hummed in automatic response. She forced herself to look away from him and focus on the card trick Jasper was attempting for Wells' benefit. 

 

Raven had hung streamers and bought huge, golden star balloons to decorate. When she dimmed the lights, Clarke realized the balloons glowed a neon yellow in the dark.

 

"All right, in the words of Octavia, let's get started, bitches!" Raven called out, leaving her perch beside Wells to place an empty Angry Orchard bottle on the floor in the center of their circle.   

 

"Hey? Where is Octavia?" Jasper asked, glancing around the room as if just now noticing her absence. 

 

"Lincoln has a late shift at the art gallery. They're coming by later," Harper replied. "Now stop stalling and let's play! Rules are you either kiss the person in front of the group or get locked in my closet with them for seven minutes if you refuse." 

 

"What?" Monty's head snapped up. 

 

"That's ridiculous!" Murphy complained. 

 

"Harper, isn't that a little--" Raven started, but one pointed look from her roommate at the back of Clarke's head left her silent once more.

 

"My birthday, my rules," she said sweetly to the collective groans, rubbing her hands together. "Drink up, boys and girls! This is going to be fun."  

 

Wells landing on Raven was annoyingly cute, and he gave her a simple kiss while cupping her face sweetly. Miller's bottle coming to a halt at Harper was a bit more entertaining. It took them a minute to figure out which way to lean their heads, but after some nervous laughter and Harper blushing scarlet to her roots, they successfully kissed and she sat back down next to Monty. A half hour later, the room felt warmer to Clarke, and her blood buzzed comfortably through her veins as Monty tried to swerve away from Jasper's kiss and Bellamy accepted a cheek kiss from Murphy. 

 

"All right, Blake's up!" Harper cried out. 

 

He put down his drink with a thud and bent forward on one knee near the bottle. Clarke noticed that his white shirt seemed to glow against his skin in the low light much like the balloons. He cleared his throat once and spun the bottle. She didn't realize she was holding her breath until it landed on her, and she couldn't draw air into her lungs at all. The side conversations died away immediately as she met his eyes, which flickered with a question. 

 

Murphy reached forward and shoved her shoulder until she got to her feet. She shakily took a step and then another into the center of the room.

 

“Go get ‘em, tiger!” Murphy supplied unhelpfully.

 

"I want to see a real kiss!" Harper smiled, taking a bit of confetti from the table and throwing a handful at them, so it settled into their hair like rainbow rain. To her left, Monty looked a bit like a zookeeper spotting an escaped bear. 

 

"Yeah, go on, kiss her, Blake," Murphy called out. He rocked hard enough on his chair for the hinges to squeak over the music in the background. 

 

Clarke's heart hammered ferociously in her chest as she glared at them both. Sweat was popping up along her collar, and she could spot the vein in Bellamy's neck pulsing as well. Her mouth was very dry. This couldn't be happening. 

 

"I - I pick the closet," she managed. 

 

* * *

She just hadn't expected her friends to be so  _gleeful_  about locking her into a cramped space with Bellamy. But a minute later, she found Harper's closet door slamming closed, and her shoulder blades pressed up against it as Bellamy watched her carefully from his perch on the opposite wall beside a rack of shoes. 

 

"Don't think about coming out before the time's up!" Jasper called out in a sour sing-song tone. "You can't anyway - this door locks from the outside." 

 

Clarke tensed when she saw Bellamy reach out his hand, but he just wrapped it around the thin, silver cord dangling from the ceiling and turned on the light. She knew she must be beet red, and she felt like the walls were closing in on her when Bellamy's gaze swept once up her frame. Her breathing quickened. She felt like pacing, but walking forward in the walk-in closet meant walking toward him, and she couldn't very well do that. 

 

"Hey? Clarke?" his voice was a bit scratchy when it reached her ears. 

 

"Yeah?" she replied to one of Harper's smart gray skirts. 

 

"We're going to get out of here. We're not trapped. Just breathe," he said kindly. 

 

He took a tentative step forward, eyes never leaving hers as her chest rose up and down rapidly. "It's just me. You're fine." 

 

"Yeah. Ok," she said, nodding fervently. 

 

"Calm down." 

 

She literally shuddered when his warm fingers found the crook of her elbow, and he jerked them away like she'd shocked him. 

 

"Guess I'm the last person you want to be trapped in here with." He gave her a small smile as he stepped back, that stubborn curl falling across his forehead. 

 

"Yeah," she agreed too quickly and almost immediately saw a thin mist of hurt pass across his face. Or maybe not. The light made it hard to know for sure. 

 

She bit her lip.

 

"I mean . . . I'm kind of seeing Atom. Well, we've been out twice, so I don't really know what that means, but he's nice and funny, so maybe--"

 

"Mmm," Bellamy's deep grumble rolled through the small place. "I get it." 

 

When she managed to check his face again, she was sure his jaw muscle clenched. 

 

"And aren't you seeing t-that girl you were jogging around campus with last week?" her voice almost cracked on the last word, but thankfully, it didn't. "I don't know her name." 

 

"Bree," Bellamy offered without a trace of emotion. "We just met. I don't know." 

 

"Oh," Clarke sighed unhelpfully, slumping back into the door. "Well, she seemed into you." 

 

"Clarke, I--"

 

"I didn't know you liked blondes," she blurted it out so unexpectedly that she had to fight every impulse to resist slapping her hand over her mouth. 

 

"Huh?" Bellamy questioned, rubbing at the back of his neck. 

 

"I . . . I mean you were always with brunettes, you know, at . . . the house." 

 

"Oh," he let out a tiny, polite laugh and rested back against the wall, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops. 

 

Clarke's breathing began to straighten out. 

 

"I guess I have a type. Doesn't everyone?" he asked conversationally. 

 

She wondered how much of their seven minutes were up. 

 

"Yeah," she said after a brief pause. "I guess you do."

 

She could hear the bitterness in her voice and knew he could too because his features rearranged themselves into surprise. 

 

"Clarke--"

 

"Please don't," she shook her head aggressively. "You don't need to." 

 

He took a step nearer her and then another. She didn't shift, just stared back at him. She started to count his freckles when the citrus of his cologne overwhelmed her instead. 

 

"You don't need me to tell you you're a pretty princess, do you?" His face cracked into a warm smile at his little joke, but it stabbed at her stomach anyway. 

 

She turned her head away from him, praying the flush hadn't crawled up her neck, too. Bellamy took a final step closer, bringing one hand up to span her lower back lightly. 

 

"Well you are," he said softly. 

 

His eyelashes were defined at this proximity, and his chest was heavy and solid so near to her. 

 

"I don't know. I don't know. I don't know," she mumbled rapidly under her breath. 

 

"What don't you know, Princess?" His thigh was brushing against hers now, and his other hand was positively delicate where he stroked along her hip. 

 

She shook her head, squinting her eyes shut for a moment. 

 

"Clarke, what is it?" real concern flooded his voice. 

 

"This isn't real. It's a game," she spluttered out, one hand wedged in front of her stomach to push him away if he drew any nearer. 

 

His head jolted back like a snake striking in reverse, and his eyes darkened as he stared at her for a long moment. She moved her hand down to cover his on her hip, intending to push it away, but he gripped her harder. 

 

The hand on her waist rose slowly to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. 

 

"You're always so serious, Princess," he said scratchily. She thought he was trying for humor, but his voice broke a little. "Can you relax please? Don't you trust me by now?" 

 

"No," Clarke squeaked, a shiver gripping her. 

 

The look on his face sent a plunging sensation through her stomach as she realized her mistake. 

 

"I mean I can't live in the moment," she clarified hastily. 

 

"Why?" he rasped, thumb sliding back and forth over the curve of her stomach. 

 

"Because the moment always ends." 

 

She didn't know what possessed her to say it, but now that it was out there, she couldn't take it back.

 

"One step at a time." 

 

His fingertips soothed up and down her exposed arm. It obliterated her concentration though she tried to cling to it anyway. 

 

"I'm not like you," she argued fiercely. 

 

Still, she yearned to slide her fingers into his thick curls. 

 

"What does that mean?" 

 

The motion on her arm stopped abruptly. Clarke sucked in a deep breath. 

 

"I'm not . . . good with casual." She stifled a small cough rising in her throat. "It's not what I want." 

 

She pushed past him overwhelmed by embarrassment. Bellamy seemed too stunned to stop her this time anyway. Clarke raised her fist about to pound on the door and demand they be set free when it swung open unexpectedly to reveal a delighted looking Octavia. 

 

"I'm late for one damn party, and they throw you two in a closet together?" she joked merrily. "Good thing I got here to stop World War III from starting, right?" 

 

Her grin froze when she took in the sight of their faces. Clarke brushed past her, making a beeline for the bathroom. 

 

"What the hell did you do?" she narrowed her eyes at her brother. 

 

"Nothing," Bellamy grunted, walking slowly back toward the living room where he could hear his friends' laughter, Octavia hot on his heels. 

 

* * *

**_DECEMBER 2017_ **

Bellamy hesitates, but she remains outwardly calm though every muscle in her body feels poised to sprint away. Clarke's hand drops a few centimeters but then he leans forward at the last moment, sliding fingers around the narrow bone of her wrist and engulfing her small hand. 

 

"If that's what you really want," he gives her a one-shoulder shrug. "Nothing wrong with some fun on your birthday."   

 

Electricity flows from her fingers up her arm and seemingly straight into her heart. But she ignores it momentarily, giving him a penetrating look. His lips twitch, and his expression is something of a challenge. Clarke rolls her eyes and tugs. 

 

"Come on," she pulls him into the hallway, eyes already roaming the ground for her shoes. 

 

"By the way," she throws it over her shoulder. Clarke realizes then how desperately close he is to her back. It might be her imagination, but he seems to squeeze her fingers slightly. "You deserve to have some fun, too." 

 

He gives her a strange look she can't read. 

 

"What is it?" 

 

"I just, uh, never thought you'd actually be interested in that kind of fun." 

 

She drops his hand, her eyes popping open wider as surprise streaks over her face. 

 

Bellamy licks his lower lip and stuffs his hands into his pockets.

 

"Not that that's what this is! I, uh, I just meant . . . are you sure?"

 

Her lips part open. Her whole body feels lighter than fast-moving clouds. She chuckles, swallowing her grin. 

 

"Bellamy Blake, this is  _exactly_  what this is. So if that's all right with you, can we go? I like this song." 


	10. Throw Me A Line

 

_APRIL 2017_

A faint aroma of cherry blossoms wafted through the heavy air while the washing machines banged about noisily. Clarke was perched on top of a vacant dryer, her nose buried deep in her complicated calculus notes.

 

"Ugh," she sighed in defeat, rubbing her eyes as the mathematical symbols swam before her. 

 

She pushed the notes off her lap and stared out the window at a large flock of birds soaring together across the sky already streaked with the vibrant purples and golds of sunset. 

 

The thud of the door hitting the back wall snapped her out of her reverie. Her heart lurched into her throat when she saw Bellamy's shaggy, dark hair and taut forearms enter the cramped space, a big basket of laundry in his arms. 

 

"What are you doing here?" she spluttered. 

 

"Hey to you too, Princess," his mouth puckered slightly as he spoke. 

 

"Hi," she managed, swinging her leg nervously into the side of the machine below her, inadvertently creating a clanging noise like a gong. 

 

Bellamy dropped his laundry basket on the sole, rickety wooden table in the room and began transporting fistfuls of clothing into a nearby washing machine. 

 

"A pipe burst at my complex and flooded the laundry room," he replied gruffly, keeping his back to her. "O let me in to use this one." 

 

"Mmm." 

 

Her mouth felt dry as she watched his shoulder blades ripple under his bright white T-shirt. Clarke realized she was nodding although he couldn't even see her. Their paths had not crossed for almost two weeks since the night she had very awkwardly slipped out of Raven and Harper's apartment after being locked in a closet together. 

 

"How's the job hunt going? Any good teaching leads?" 

 

Clarke could hear the squeaky oddness in her tone but swallowed and ignored it, hoping Bellamy would, too. 

 

He made a small grunting noise and shrugged, shoving the last few shirts inside and closing the door. He turned and faced her, crossing his arms over his chest. She gazed at a few of the veins snaking up his bronze arms.

 

"A few." 

 

Clarke bit her lip and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. 

 

"That's good," she tried for encouraging. "I know you'll find something great soon!" 

 

His eyebrows rose up like furry little caterpillars and his mouth found itself in a thin line as he nodded.

 

"Thanks," he said crisply. 

 

Clarke's mouth was still open in a soft "O" by the time Bellamy settled himself at the table, his chair scraping against the floor. He pressed earbuds into his ears and opened up his laptop. She couldn't see exactly what he was doing, but it looked like he was writing some sort of letter while surfing through a website. She picked imaginary lint off her lycra pants before turning back to her convoluted math problem. The equations seemed even more ridiculous now. Clarke rubbed absently at her temple, feeling the faint tinges of an incoming migraine. 

 

Twenty minutes later, the sharp buzz of her dryer split through the air loud enough for Bellamy to pull one ear bud out. Clarke slid off her machine, feeling the sharpness of her landing vibrate in her ankles. Bellamy caught her eye for a second but looked away. 

 

"It's just my clothes," she said vaguely. "I'm a . . . going to meet Wells for a hike this afternoon." She motioned at her workout ensemble by way of explanation. 

 

"Great," he mumbled, returning to his music and document. 

 

Clarke sighed. 

 

She threw open the dryer door and tossed her clothes haphazardly into the waiting white basket, beyond grateful there was nothing risqué to speak of hidden in the mix. Stacking her notes on top of her sweet-smelling button downs, she spared the back of Bellamy's dark curls one last look.

 

He jolted noticeably when the soft stroke of her thumb flew across his wrist bone. 

 

"Hey." 

 

A wave of goose bumps erupted along his forearm. He swiveled in his seat and removed his ear buds once more. 

 

"What?" 

 

Clarke swallowed audibly. 

 

"Look, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I shouldn't have acted like that. I'm sorry," she whispered from her place next to his shoulder. 

 

"Sorry for what?" he blinked. 

 

She pursed her lips at him, but his face remained blank, giving nothing away. 

 

"For overreacting at Harper's party. I, uh, what does my mom call it?" she paused. "Oh, yeah, made a mountain out of a molehill. You know . . . overdramatic." 

 

Bellamy laughed reluctantly at that - it was true he'd heard Abby say the old expression more times than he could count over the years. 

 

He shrugged, considering her. Her top suddenly felt too restrictively tight like it was cutting off her air supply. 

 

"Maybe, but I didn't help when I was being . . . "

 

"Yourself?" she arched a wry eyebrow at him. 

 

His grin turned infectious. 

 

"Yeah, I guess so." 

 

Clarke's canine sliced down into her lower lip, and she actually felt the heat crawl up her neck into her cheeks as the memory of the closet stole into her mind's eye. 

 

"So . . . are we good?" 

 

His gaze pierced right through her. 

 

"Yeah, we're good," Bellamy replied. 

 

Before she could talk herself out of it, she swooped down and pressed a light kiss to his cheek. With her shaky hands gripping the sides of her teetering laundry basket for dear life, she was almost to the door when she heard him call her name. 

 

"Yeah?" she turned back around. 

 

Bellamy tapped his pencil eraser against the table a few times before speaking. 

 

"Just . . . for the record. I'm not too sold on casual myself." 

 

"Oh . . . uh . . . " Clarke was left temporarily speechless, and Bellamy took the opportunity to throw her a careful smile. 

 

"Have fun with Wells, Princess." 

 

* * *

_DECEMBER 2017_  

The fact that Clarke's heart is pounding loudly enough to create its own bass beat is beside the point. The point is that Bellamy's fingertips are skimming the edge of her lower back, and she's walking purposefully back toward the pulsing sound and color of Arkadia. There's a few inches of space between their bodies, but if she shifts just right, she can feel the edge of his shirt brush against her. The bar crowd has definitely thinned out considerably, but people still dance around on the dull wood floor, and Murphy is still pouring drinks. 

 

When they hit the edge of the dance floor, Clarke chances a glance up into Bellamy's dark eyes just as he turns his chin down to meet her look.

 

"Clarke, I don't really dance." 

 

But he grips the side of her waist solidly as he says it, pulling her against his chest and murmuring the words into her ear. 

 

She pouts a little, turning wide eyes on him. 

 

"But you promised." 

 

"You always get what you want, don't you?" 

 

He's smiling as he says it though, and she grins back, feeling more confident to reach for one of his hands and pull him past a swaying couple toward the center of the floor. It's warmer here under the few lights and surrounded by body heat. 

 

A slow rock song she vaguely recognizes fills the space. Clarke traces her eyes along the curves of Bellamy's bicep before stepping forward and slipping her arms loosely over his shoulders, so her wrists cross behind his back. The action brings their chests only an inch or two apart, and Bellamy freezes for a moment before allowing his large hands to clutch at either side of her waist. Clarke emits a small sigh, feeling her shoulders slump with a breath she didn't know she was holding. 

 

"This ok?" Bellamy's breath tickles her cheek. 

 

Not trusting herself to speak anymore, she simply nods, the tip of her nose grazing his jaw. It's like being suddenly placed in someone else's body. Clarke's hyperaware of the faded cloth of his shirt under her fingers and the smoky citrus laced into the skin of his neck as she nestles against him. A moment later, she feels his hands tighten a bit at her back as he pulls her closer. 

 

"Oh," she breathes as the sharp edge of her tiara sticks into his shoulder. "Sorry."

 

She tries to pull it from her waves and tangles, but Bellamy catches her hand and shakes his head.  

 

"It looks good on you. Leave it on?" 

 

His freckles crinkle and dance when he asks, and she shakes her head a little then laughs and readjusts it. 

 

Bellamy sways her gently to the music, bending down to whisper, "Happy Birthday, Clarke," in her ear. The shivers burst forth down her spine. She draws back a step, interlacing her fingers and bringing them to rest on the back of his neck. "At least you did buy me that drink you promised." 

 

He laughs, a deep rumble that leaves her feeling grounded. 

 

Clarke's not quite sure how it happens, but her head winds up resting on Bellamy's shoulder while her fingers glide through the base of his curls at the back of his neck. He's stroking absent patterns into her sides and lower back as if he has no idea of the sensations he's stirring within her. Well, maybe he doesn't. 

 

Emboldened, she carefully hooks one stilettoed foot on the outside of his leg and tilts her hips forward, seeking out the friction of his thigh while her nails cut into the skin around his shoulder blades. 

 

"Clarke . . . " he groans. 

 

"Yes?" she draws back, blinking her long eyelashes sweetly. 

 

"Be careful," he holds her stare for a long moment. 

 

"I'm tired of being careful," she flips her hair behind her left shoulder, smirking wickedly and wrapping her legs more tightly around Bellamy's thigh, grinding down. 

 

"Fuck," she hears him mutter before his hands slide securely under her ass and pull her more firmly into the length of his body. 

 

She grins broadly, stretching up to drop a kiss to the underside of his jaw. Clarke wants more of him - she wants to hear his voice rasp against her ear again. She wants to feel him harden along her stomach once more. But she contents herself with the way the heat of his palm is now curled over the bare muscle at the back of her right thigh, just beneath the edge of her dress. 

 

Minutes pass. Bellamy's not sure how many. A snap of white cloth a few feet from his face catches his attention. He opens his eyes fully, dragging Clarke closer against him, to see Murphy's smug grin. 

 

"Bailing on clean-up duty I see," Murphy drawls with a flash of his eyebrows. 

 

"Sorry, man. I said I would help." 

 

"You did say that," comes Murphy's steady reply. 

 

Clarke's limbs unfurl from around his neck at the words, and she turns to face Murphy, too. Bellamy feels her small hand glide around his back and grip his side like she's not letting go anytime soon. It's getting harder to think clearly. 

 

"Don't worry about it," Murphy drawls, winking specifically at Clarke. 

 

She glances around the bar, surprised to see they're among the last seven or eight people there. 

 

"Listen, I don't care where the hell you go, but I'm closing up, so you can't stay here." 

 

"Right," Bellamy says slowly. "Right." 

 

He looks down at Clarke, his arm slung lazily across her shoulders. 

 

"I can . . . drive you home?" 

 

Murphy rolls his eyes as if he's affected and moves away to herd the last stragglers out the door. 

 

"Definitely not," she shakes her blonde head like a precocious child, pouting. 

 

Bellamy's eyes narrow for a moment. He reaches his hand up to scratch at the back of his neck. Clarke purses her lips, waiting. 

 

"Or . . . "

 

"Or?" she presses. 

 

"We could go back to my place?" he tries really hard to keep his voice even and deep. 

 

"Much better," her smile is radiant, while a burnt rose climbs into his cheeks. 

 

"Are you blushing, Bellamy?" Clarke can't help but tease him. 

 

"No," Bellamy's retort is almost instant. "It's hot in here." 

 

"Yeah it is," Murphy laughs to himself as he strolls back up to them. "Seriously," he nods to the door. "Get out of here. There's a reason I don't watch Hallmark movies." 

 

Clarke grabs her jacket and purse from her long abandoned booth and finds Bellamy leaning against a wood beam near the end of the bar. He's wearing his worn leather jacket now, and it makes her smile. 

 

She follows him with smaller steps to the door, and he holds it open for her. 

 

"Ready?" he asks. 

 

It's a simple question, but however she answers will fundamentally change everything. His darkening eyes reassure her of that.  

 

Letting out a breath visible as translucent white mist, she manages a nervous smile. 

 

"I am," she almost sings out, and they walk straight into the night. 


	11. Don't Know Why (But I Really Do)

Clarke's fairly certain it's Murphy who wolf-whistles right before the door swings shut behind her. Stepping outside is like walking through a veil of ice mist, and she tugs the top of her coat closer together to protect her chest, wondering not for the first time tonight what happened to her scarf. 

 

Bellamy's shoulders are hunched against the wind, and he walks one pace ahead of her, eyes scanning the landscape as if he thinks someone will jump out and attack them at any moment. 

 

"What's wrong?" Clarke demands. 

 

He glances back at her. 

 

"It's late," comes his grumble. 

 

Clarke's eyes widen in shrewdness. 

 

"So what? It's not like you've never stayed out late with . . .  _other_  people." 

 

The smirk arises on his lips before he can think far enough ahead to suppress it. 

 

"Seems like you have an overactive imagination when it comes to me, Princess. Maybe you should've majored in creative writing. You could write a book full of all your theories." 

 

Her face snaps up to his instantly, and she's about to retort when she catches the warmth in his expression and the arm he's holding out, beckoning her toward him. Shaking her head a little, she hurries into the coziness of his side and lets his hand close protectively around her waist. She can hear his steady, if accelerated, heartbeat.  

 

"This neighborhood isn't great after dark, you know that," Bellamy whispers the words into her ear, a bit of his scruff scratching delicately against the pale skin of her cheek. "Let's get moving." 

 

"Where did you park?" she huffs three blocks later. Her heels, while sexy, are clicking obnoxiously into the concrete sidewalk now and are sending a shot of pain into her calves with each movement. 

 

"In the deck next to the new hotel across the street from Mecha. I had to pick up my check this afternoon," he replies. "Need me to carry you?" 

 

His dark brown eyes are full of mischief even as the back of her hand collides with his chest and her exasperated half-shriek rents through the air.  

 

"You are--" Clarke begins. 

 

"Cause I would you know," Bellamy cuts in, sounding a little more serious. 

 

"Save it for later," she retorts, looking him square in the eye. His Adam's Apple bulges out. 

 

"Whatever the hell you want," he returns, the corners of his mouth still upturned. 

 

A couple minutes later, he pulls open the passenger side door of his beat-up pickup truck, allowing Clarke to scramble in before he slams it shut again. She hastily pulls the edges of her dress down over her thighs and fastens her seatbelt. Bellamy climbs in and immediately starts flicking through the radio stations as soon as the key's in the ignition. He doesn't stop playing around until a Guns N' Roses song begins crooning over the speakers. 

 

A deep, tingling shiver crawls up Clarke's spine, causing her left shoulder to jolt up and back. Her teeth chatter mildly. Bellamy throws her a sidelong glance as he pulls out of the parking deck and cranks the heater up higher. 

 

"Thanks," she mumbles. 

 

"Mhmm," he rumbles back. 

 

His hand floats a few inches above her left knee for a moment before falling back to the top of his thigh. The roads are very quiet, with oncoming high beams illuminating the truck's interior in a soft lemon light only once every minute or two. The silence cloaks the small space, and she rests her head back against the seat cushion, only for the sharpness of her tiara to slice into her scalp. 

 

"Ouch," she mutters, flicking it off at last and tossing it behind her into the backseat. 

 

Bellamy drums his fingers on the steering wheel. 

 

"You going to leave that in here?" 

 

The edge of her mouth curves upward as she's silent for a few seconds. 

 

"Consider it a souvenir." 

 

"Clever," Bellamy says back, shaking his head. 

 

Before Clarke knows it, he's effortlessly gliding across the interstate lanes and getting off at the exit she knows leads back to his place. The trees grow thicker and closer together in his neighborhood, but right now, they're all doused in an inky blackness. When the edge of his front tires bump into the concrete partition of an open parking spot with a miniature backward roll, Clarke finally turns to take in his shadowed face fully. 

 

"What did you tell Spacewalker?" Bellamy asks as he cuts the engine. 

 

The question catches her off-guard, and she coughs. 

 

"What do you mean?" 

 

"I mean. . . " he leans a little closer, causing his eyes to appear blacker still when his hand does land on her knee this time. "How did you leave it with him?" 

 

"I told him to have a merry Christmas," she retorts sarcastically. 

 

"Clarke--"

 

"How did you leave it with Echo?" 

 

"I told her I didn't want to go home with her." 

 

His honestly is more unexpected than the extreme drop in temperature. 

 

 She bites her lip. 

 

"Why?" 

 

He rolls his eyes and gets out of the truck, leaning back inside for a moment before he shuts the door. 

 

"Are you coming up or not?" 

 

* * *

Bellamy's kitchen is kind of a train wreck. Clarke's got a great view of it from the entrance to his apartment because of the wall cutout creating an open design between it and the living room. Bowls containing the remains of half-eaten meals litter the counter, while damp, faded dishtowels sneak out of the sink and hang over the counter's edge. There's a blender sitting out still smeared with something green and gooey and a stack of clean pans resting beside a small hill of crumbs that must have come from the still-plugged-in toaster. Cans of beans and boxes of pasta and other non-perishables line the back wall as if there just wasn't time for them to find a place in the pantry. And she's pretty sure the white stove is stained with droplets of tomato sauce.  

 

"Did you leave in a rush or something?" Clarke swallows her smile. 

 

Bellamy emits a groan and rubs his hand across his eyes, squeezing the skin around his nose in the process.

 

"I've been doing final grades for my kids," he explains. "Late nights. Early mornings." 

 

Clarke nods. 

 

"Want some help cleaning up?" 

 

"No, I'm good, thanks," he bats a hand through the air dismissively. "Do you want something to drink?" 

 

Her bright blue eyes rake back over the kitchen, and she shakes her head slowly. "I think I'll pass." 

 

Bellamy laughs outright at that and hurries forward to begin soaping up the dirty dishes. Clarke finds a clean spot a few feet away from him and hoists herself up onto the counter with a little difficulty, banging her legs loosely into the cabinets like she used to do when she was in high school and Bellamy cooked dinner for her and Octavia. She's a little too entranced with the way his muscles flow under his golden skin as soap bubbles hover in the air to hear his words. 

 

"Clarke?" 

 

She blinks dumbly at him several minutes later, eyes shooting to the patch of skin on her upper arm where he's tentatively rubbing his wet thumb. 

 

"Yeah?" she breathes. "Sorry, what?"  

 

When did he get so close to her? Bellamy clears his throat. 

 

"I said what was going on with you tonight? I mean, you never act like that." 

 

"Sometimes I do," she has to look away because the intensity of his gaze is overwhelming her. 

 

"Not with me you don't." 

 

She digs her nails into the side of her knee, and the brief pain gives her courage. 

 

"You're the one who pushed me into a wall." 

 

Bellamy swallows audibly, shifting so he's closer still. He drops his dishrag and braces a hand on either side of her knees instead. Even in her short, tight dress, she feels her legs falling open, inviting him to step between them. She's equal parts exhilarated and terrified when he does. There's comforting body heat rolling off him, and Clarke finds she likes the blend of her floral fragrance with his spicier one. The slide of his fingers from her knee up the outside of her thigh to the curve of her waist leave her desperate for more air. 

 

"That was a mistake. I shouldn't have done that to you."

 

He whispers the message right into her ear, and suddenly she can't stand it for one second longer. She wraps one hand around his bicep right above his elbow and uses her other to cup the side of his face. 

 

"Well I wasn't exactly Shakespeare, but I meant what I said." 

 

"Which part?" he rasps in a new, low near-growl. His breath travels easily to her lips. Meanwhile, his fingers tighten into her other side, and she slides her knees up by the tiniest of inches until they hit the hardness of his hip bones. 

 

Clarke runs the hint of her forefinger over the dips in his bottom lip, and she's nearly positive his tongue meets it with a rough-casual lick. 

 

"The part where I said I wanted it to be you taking me," she rasps. 

 

"Jesus, Princess. What got into you?" he bows his shaggy head into the crook of her shoulder. But she counts it as a win when his plush lips brush a kiss over the top of her skin. He tries to draw back, but Clarke won't let him. She claws at the back of his shirt, keeping him close while her ankles lock together somewhere near his ass. 

 

He groans, meeting her eyes then skimming his own over her mole, the tops of her breasts. Clarke's ivory hand suddenly grasps for one of his to interlace their fingers, and he gives in with no resistance. She brings their joined hands up very slowly to her mouth and kisses the back of his hand. 

 

"Why now? Why all the sudden? You thought I was an jackass for years!" he urges while still slipping his free hand around her back just under her ass and pushing her forward a few inches, so she hums in approval. 

 

Clarke instantly thrashes her head from side to side, pressing her fingers into the thick muscle of his back. 

 

"Not true," she brands the words on the underside of his jaw. "I've been waiting forever for you." 

 

Bellamy's hardening along her inner thigh, and she smiles softly to herself. 

 

"Then this is one of those weird, sexual attraction things you need to get out of your system, huh? Screw your best friend's big brother?" his words are teasing but with a bite, and then he takes her earlobe between his teeth, and she squeezes her eyes shut. 

 

"God, I hope not," she moans.  

 

Her neck yields with ease, creating ample space for his insistent lips to find her pulse point as he sucks an aggressive mark there at last. Clarke drops her right hand into the soapy, warm water beside her before coasting it under his shirt and curling winding paths into the undulating muscle she discovers. 

 

"Girls like you don't wind up with guys like me, Princess," he pulls back to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "Not the way the world works." 

 

Clarke growls for real now, jabbing her knees into his sides and pulling him closer between her spread legs. 

 

"Bellamy!" she huffs, boring her eyes straight into his. "I've liked you for years, ok? And I think you care about me, too. So can we skip the self-deprecation just this once please?" 

 

There's the feeling of being connected by thick and powerful cords. And then there's only his mouth covering her own. 


	12. Battle Scars

_"I'm more than a bird_

_I'm more than a plane_

_I'm more than some pretty face beside a train_

_It's not easy to be me._

_I wish that I could cry_

_Fall upon my knees_

_Find a way to lie_

_About a home I'll never see._

_It may sound absurd, but don't be naive_

_Even heroes have the right to bleed_

_I may be disturbed, but won't you concede_

_Even heroes have the right to dream?_

_And it's not easy to be me."_

_~Five for Fighting, "Superman (it's not easy)"_

Clarke scrambles to get a decent grip on Bellamy's shoulders as her eyes close. Still, his kiss is much softer than she would have expected. The tender pressure of it causes her to melt a little. She parts her lips slightly, intent to close them around his upper one while her fingers knot into his hair, but he's already pulling himself away, staring at her in a wild sort of disbelief. 

 

The back of his right hand moves up in front of his mouth, and he takes a step backward though his left palm slides to her kneecap. She grabs for it. 

 

"What is it? What's wrong?"

 

Bellamy's hand falls from his face, and he shakes his head almost imperceptibly. 

 

"You don't want this with me, Princess," he says quietly. "It's a mistake." 

 

Her brow furrows and mouth purses simultaneously, and he can see the sheen of water building behind her irises in the dull glow of the kitchen light. 

 

"No, it's not," Clarke says steadily, flipping his wrist in her hand and rubbing her thumb along the tender skin above his plump veins. "Unless you don't want me back. Because . . . " 

 

She stares away toward the stove and beyond it to the kitchen table littered with textbooks and papers. His arm twitches under her grasp. 

 

"Because?" he presses hesitantly. 

 

Clarke swallows and meets his eyes one more time with an insane amount of difficulty. 

 

"Because I really mean it," she whispers. "Nobody feels the way I do about you." 

 

His lip drags upward in a crooked half-smile. 

 

"That second part I believe," he smiles. "But listen, Clarke, I was a dick about Roan, and I'm sorry. I shouldn't have made you feel like I'd cut you out over it because that's never gonna happen. I'm like a bad stain, you know that," he shrugs. "I'm not going anywhere even when we're pissed off at each other. So you don't have to worry about me just dropping out of your life." 

 

His face is so earnest and boyish that it's sending fissures of emotion pulsing through her chest and down into her gut. 

 

"I'm not worried about that," she breathes. 

 

"Well, good," Bellamy clears his throat awkwardly. "I just didn't want you to think you had to," he waves his hand up and down as if at her general appearance, "Do this to keep me around or something." 

 

It takes a few seconds for his words to make sense. But when they do, Clarke narrows her eyes in great surprise. 

 

" _Excuse_  me?" she says sharply. "What the hell does that mean? Do you have a problem with my outfit?" 

 

Bellamy looks startled at the anger rising up in her face. 

 

"What?" he sputters. "No, no! That's not it! You look good. Really good," he mumbles. "I just didn't want you to feel like you had to lay it on thick for me to--"

 

"I was not laying it on thick!" Clarke's eyes flash dangerously, and she uses the leverage of her half-bent legs to push him a few steps back from her. She launches off the counter to the linoleum floor with a snap. "I was meeting Finn tonight, remember?! I dressed up for  _him,"_ she emphasizes pointedly. 

 

"All right, all right, calm down," Bellamy holds out his hands in supplication. 

 

"I will not calm down!" Clarke continues, all fired up. "What about that night at Harper's birthday? You seemed to like my body just fine then! What were you going to do, Bellamy? Try to sleep with me and then throw me out like all those other girls? Or were you just pretending?" 

 

She hates that a tear is escaping out of the corner of her eye and wipes it away hastily. Her arms cross over her chest protectively. 

 

"No!" Bellamy's voice is hard, adamant, and insistent, and she startles at the volume.  

 

"That time at Harper's, I, I don't know. You just seemed so upset to be stuck in there with me, and--"

 

"You figured it was just a game anyway, so why not?" she snaps angrily. "Is that it?" 

 

His shoulders slump as he emits a heavy breath. 

 

"You're not letting me finish, Clarke! You keep cutting me off!" he booms, his anger rising to match her own. 

 

"Oh, I'm sorry, your majesty. Please, enlighten me with your deep insights!" she spits. 

 

Bellamy's jaw clenches, and he thrusts his fists into his pockets. Clarke's heart seizes tightly and seems to jump over into her esophagus, choking her. She presses her polished gold nails into the side of her bicep as she waits. There is a tremendously long silence as they watch each other warily. Finally, Bellamy breaks it. 

 

"I wasn't pretending," he says, voice stony. 

 

"Ok, fine. My mistake," Clarke manages evenly though Bellamy is watching the crease between her brows etch itself deeper into her skin. "You had some alcohol and figured I was passably cute or whatever. I get it." 

 

Bellamy runs both hands across his face and groans. 

 

"You are so goddamn frustrating," he says, voice muffled. 

 

"I'm not!" she calls back insistently, taking a step closer to him. "You are! You never finish your thoughts." 

 

"Because you never let me," Bellamy retorts immediately. "You either finish them for me or run away, so you don't have to hear them! Why's that, Princess?" 

 

She wants to slap the developing smirk from his mouth but resists the urge. 

 

"Don't turn this on me, Blake! We were talking about you."

 

He looks tired now, with more lines on his face and a certain weariness in his body that wasn't there before. Clarke frowns.   

 

"You're wrong, Clarke. You're just . . . wrong. About everything," he shrugs, but there's no passionate rage left in him now, just resignation. 

 

He sweeps by her, the side of his arm brushing along her waist as he passes on his way to collapse onto the couch in his living room. She follows immediately, kicking off her shoes and dropping them into a corner. She seats herself at the edge of the coffee table in front of him. 

 

"Ok," she says steadily. "If I'm wrong, tell me how. Tell me what's going on in your head, Bellamy. I won't understand til you do. And I'm not going anywhere." 

 

He takes in the sure jut of her jaw and that raw Griffin determination he's seen demonstrated by her mother so many times over the years, starting with the day Abby removed his worthless stepdad from his house after he beat his mother bloody. 

 

Bellamy sinks back into the cushions. 

 

"You don't need me to tell you you're attractive, Clarke," he says. "But this," he gestures between them, "would be a bad idea. You don't need to get mixed up with me like that." 

 

"Why not?" she demands, leaning toward him. "Why is it such a bad idea?" 

 

The tips of his fingers get lost in his dark curls while his elbow presses hard enough into a gray pillow to almost pop the stuffing out of it. 

 

"You're O's best friend," he says in a smooth way that makes her sure he's lying. "I'm not risking screwing that up for her. I was stupid at Harper's, and I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you or make you feel bad. Ok?"

 

"So you didn't mean it?" 

 

"No, I mean, I did, but . . . ugh," he hisses in frustration. "Can we just drop it and go back to being friends?" 

 

Clarke eyes him shrewdly, the few, jagged cuts on his hands from working with cars at Mecha and the slight, silver-purple shimmer under his eyes from lack of sleep. She presses her tongue to the top of her mouth in concentration. 

 

"No," she says clearly. "We can't. There's something you're not telling me. I'm not mad at you, so you don't need to apologize. And this is definitely not about Octavia. So save that smokescreen for someone who doesn't know you like I do."

 

"Clarke--"

 

"Tell me the truth, Bellamy." 

 

She stands up in front of him for a moment, hesitating while he watches her with some mix of hope and fear in his eyes. Clarke looks like she's about to slide into the open space beside him on the couch when at the last minute, she drops down into his lap instead. Her knees are wide apart on either side of his thighs, and she's careful not to put much weight on him at all.  

 

"We're a little beyond friendship now, aren't we?" Clarke says softly, bracing her hands on his chest and leaning forward to press a quick kiss to his cheek. "So please, tell me why you're being like this. I know you, and something's wrong," she pleads earnestly with him.

 

"It doesn't matter how I feel," he says it convincingly enough, but his hand rubs soothingly at her waist. 

 

"So you do like me a little bit?" Clarke smiles a small fraction, moving her hand up to cup his cheek and run her thumb along the shine of his eyelid when he closes his eyes at her touch. 

 

She watches the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, feels it under her fingertips. He avoids her question. 

 

"American called last week and said they had to cut O's scholarship for the last semester," he mumbles out, keeping his eyes closed. "I haven't told her yet." 

 

Clarke murmurs sympathetically. 

 

"I'm sorry," she says calmly. "But that isn't the worst thing, is it? I mean, she can just take out a loan and pay it back when she's working, right?" 

 

"That's not everything," Bellamy continues, leaning his neck back and talking to the ceiling now. 

 

"I found out in October. My mom . . . she . . . "

 

"What is it, Bell? You can tell me," Clarke can't quite keep the alarm out of her voice as she hears his own crack. 

 

It's like a dam breaks, and he begins to ramble. 

 

"She was diagnosed with schizophrenia, Clarke. The place where she's been living can't keep her, and I - I don't have the money to send her to the type of hospital where she can really get the help she needs. They're throwing her out next month. And it's genetic. I don't care if I get it, but if Octavia does I swear to God I'll--"

 

Clarke's face lights up in alarm, and she tips forward onto the couch abruptly, tugging gently at his neck and shoulders until he allows himself to collapse into her chest. A few of his tears soak into the skin below her collarbone, and she rubs his temples gently, combing her fingers through her hair as he shudders with repressed emotion. 

 

"Ok, ok, it's all right. Breathe. You're fine. I'm with you. Everything's ok," she whispers the words over and over. "You won't do this alone. I'm not going anywhere."  

 

She lets out a deep breath as Bellamy's hands clutch at her middle. She never feels safer than when he's holding her, as rare as those occasions are. 

 

"Shhh," she rocks him gently, her legs tangled up below his.  "I swear we will figure this all out." 

 

"Clarke, you can't be with me," he mumbles. "My life's a disaster. I'm just a teacher with a bunch of problems. You're going to be something amazing. That's why, ok?" 

 

He leans back to stare into her eyes like a little boy, willing her to understand. Her bottom lip thrusts out, and she blinks at him. 

 

"You raised Octavia almost single-handedly, Bellamy," she replies, equal parts kind and stern. "You put yourself through college and grad school. You're shaping kids lives every day when you teach. You've taken care of your mom all this time and never complained about it. You were . . . " she hisses out the words, throat caught with unshed tears as the edge of her pointer finger ghosts over the old burn mark peeking out from below the collar of his shirt. "Abused as a kid and never let it stop you. You're  _so_   _strong,_ do you hear me _?"_

"Mm-Mm," he seems to argue back with grunting noises but relaxes against her small frame nonetheless. 

 

"We'll figure it out," she says determinedly again to him as he pulls back and sits up, looking a little dazed. 

 

"Shit, I'm sorry," he shakes his head as if to remove imaginary dust piled up in his hair. "I shouldn't have put all that on you. It's my family, Clarke. My responsibility. I'll handle it. I just  . . . wanted you to know why. It, uh, literally wasn't you. It's me. I'm fucked up, like you said. All those girls coming and going for years. You know I don't know how to do this. I'm not normal. You don't need to get mixed up in my mess, Princess." 

 

Clarke throws him a half smile and leans across the couch toward him. 

 

"One problem with that," she whispers against his ear. "I want you and your mess. You're my family, Bell. You always have been." 

 

He groans when her mouth meets his again, a sound that sends a shiver up her spine. Clarke parts her lips almost immediately, allowing him to deepen the kiss after a few moments of her coaxing. She feels the energy shift in him, and then her shoulder blades collide with the soft cloth below as he moves over her purposefully. She kisses Bellamy back fiercely, winding her tongue into his mouth and relishing the flavor of him. He kisses her until her lips are swollen and she's gasping for air like it's all he wants to do. His hands cups the side of her waist, a warm, inviting weight, and she opens her thighs, yanking him closer by a fistful of his shirt. 

 

"Clarke, this is crazy," he hisses into the dampness building on her collar bone before biting directly into the fleshy area where her shoulder meets her neck. 

 

"Rational's overrated," she quips back, slipping her small hand under the edge of his shirt and pressing into the muscles of his back, desperate to feel his heated skin beneath her fingers.


	13. Night Talk

She was afraid it would be awkward somehow. That she would panic or he would turn to stone beneath her touch. But it's not. It's really, really  _not_. Bellamy's hand is large and solid and inching up along her ribcage, making her feel like an entire net of fireflies wants to burst out of her chest. 

 

She smiles a little against his mouth, dropping a breezy kiss to his lips and slipping her fingers into his curls. For a moment, he looks peaceful framed by her arms around his face. Then the flat of his palm collides gently with the underside of her breast, and she can't suppress the sharp inhale. He stares into her eyes calmly like he could do it all night. 

 

"Still good?" he raises one eyebrow. 

 

"God," she grits out from between her locked molars. 

 

Her irises are blown wide open, and she's panting a bit. It's not that she wants to seem hungry for him, but she  _is_. It's been  _years_ of pent-up whatever you'd call this. Clarke's calf climbs the side of his thigh, and he catches the meaty flesh of her leg, dragging her down more completely under him.

 

"That's not really an answer," he presses his mouth to her neck and cups her breast. 

 

Clarke notices her spine lift up in an arc off the cushion as Bellamy's hips roll into hers. She whimpers lowly before scraping her blunt nails along the tight skin of his side. 

 

"I'm good. I'm good," she huffs, tugging at his hair until he leaves the red mark he's creating reluctantly and allows her to kiss him again. 

 

The stretch and pull of her green dress is unforgiving, and she hears a mild tear near the hem when she opens her legs a little wider. 

 

"You're ruining your dress, Princess," Bellamy husks into her ear. 

 

She wonders if he can feel the tremble that speeds through her frame. 

 

"No," she says with more surety than she feels. " _You're_ ruining it. Get up," she shoves at his shoulders hard, startling him. 

 

"What?" he blinks in surprise, half-crawling off her. "Are we stopping?" 

 

She has to laugh at the dumb expression crossing his face. 

 

"Do you want to stop?" she opens her eyes wider, trailing a lone finger up his forearm. She can't quit touching him now that she's started. 

 

"Fuck, no," he says immediately. "But if you do, I get it." 

 

He bites his lip and casts his eyes over toward his TV as if allowing her to make herself decent once more. Clarke rolls her eyes. 

 

"You're hopeless, Blake," she sighs. 

 

She settles herself at the edge of the couch next to him and draws her hair over one shoulder, exposing her zipper to him. 

 

"Unzip me, please," she says, the confidence coming from who knows where. "And that'll solve the problem." 

 

It might be in her head, but she thinks his hands shake a little when they flutter against her skin. But then he's unzipped her dress many inches, enough for her to stand up and shimmy out of it before turning to him. Her bra is plain and black with a slight lace edging, and her underwear matches. It's warm in his apartment, but she suddenly feels cold and exposed as he watches her carefully, expression unreadable. Goosebumps erupt up and down her arms and legs and across her belly as she waits. And waits. Still, Bellamy says nothing. She chances a look into his eyes, and her stomach sinks immediately. He's shutting down somewhere deep in his brain; she can see the playful spark fading away. 

 

"Bellamy? What is it?" she snaps with more frustration than she meant to, but  _honestly_. "What's wrong?" 

 

That damn tremble in her voice is back. Bellamy looks like he has no idea what to say to her. He runs his hand over his face and grips his knee, so his knuckles turn yellow-white. 

 

"Princess," he manages, strangled. "We can't." 

 

The crease forms between her eyebrows in a flash, and her mouth puckers. 

 

"We can," she snaps back. "But you don't want to." 

 

He smirks at her. 

 

"What?" 

 

Bellamy sighs and holds out his hand to her. She stares at it for a good fifteen seconds before reluctantly taking it. With one solid tug, he has her back in his lap, hands locked around the bone of his shoulders for support. He shifts, so his groin is directly below hers and thrusts up gently, pressing himself into the dampness lining her underwear. 

 

"Of course I want to," he leans in and bites the underside of her jaw, clutching along her thigh with one hand. 

 

She can't help it; she grinds down into him, moaning when the motion creates friction against her clit. 

 

"So what's the problem?" she sighs, falling into the hollow of his neck and shoulder before she can be too embarrassed about it and rocking her hips back and forth once more. She likes how her muscles feel loose and light now that she's back in his arms. Bellamy's sure hand braces itself on the small of her back. 

 

"This is really how you want to do this? After . . . after everything?" 

 

"Bell," she huffs into the black fabric. She tugs up on the edge of his shirt with both hands. "Please take this off." 

 

He chuckles darkly. 

 

"I think you're gonna think differently about this in the morning." 

 

She instantly stiffens in his arms and shifts upward to stare into his face.  

 

"I won't!" she urges insistently. "I've loved you since I was 17!" 

 

The air seems to thicken around them, and there's a sudden buzzing in Clarke's ears as her face heats up with blood. Bellamy's mouth parts open, and his eyes bore into her face although her own eyes have fallen to the tangled mess she's making of her hands in her lap. 

 

"Clarke?" he asks after a very long pause, his voice strangled. 

 

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that," a lone tear of humiliation coasts down her cheek. 

 

She needs to get up, to leave, to go out that door and never come back here again. But she can't move. She's glued to the spot perched on Bellamy's legs as his thumbs work patterns on her hip bones. 

 

"You mean it?" 

 

It's not the question she was expecting at all, but his breath coasts over her skin like a comforting blanket nonetheless. He sounds so damn  _earnest_ , and that's what really breaks her heart.  

 

She swallows hard and finally looks back at him. He's serious now - there's a set to his jaw and steadiness to the way his eyes wait for her answer. 

 

"Of course I mean it," she sighs, shoulders slumping in embarrassment. "Ever since that night I slept over here senior year, you remember, when I woke up with a panic attack, and you heard me . . . " 

 

Her voice trails off lamely. 

 

"Mmmm," comes his steady rumble. 

 

He slides a hand across her forearm to catch the fingers of her left hand resting near her navel and tugs them away into his. 

 

"What if we just sleep tonight, Princess?" he asks her quietly, stroking his thumb over her palm. This is a new tone she's not sure she's ever heard him use before. It's somehow soft and gruff all at once. "Like that night, ok? Will you come with me?" he inclines his head in the direction of his room. 

 

Her cheeks are burning like wildfire. 

 

"I'm gonna go home, Bell," she mumbles. "You're right. This is," she shakes her head. "This  _was_  crazy. I'll let you get some sleep." 

 

She untangles herself and gets to her feet, rubbing her hands up and down her arms briskly. It feels cold now that she's no longer touching his body, absorbing its warmth. She reaches for her dress crumpled on the floor. 

 

"Clarke--don't be like that," he argues. "It's late - stay here. Please." 

 

She can't help it. She searches his face as if she can unlock the secrets of time and space there. 

 

"Why?" she asks disparagingly. "You clearly don't want me here." She's trying to be dignified about this whole get-back-into-her-dress thing, but it's an obnoxious dress. 

 

"That's not true," he says firmly, moving to his feet. "I just don't want you to regret this. You'll wake up and . . . wish you hadn't done it. That's not how I want this to go." 

 

"Then how do you want it to go?" Clarke's hands are on her hips now, and she angles her chin up at him. "You tuck in your kid sister's friend onto the couch and tell everyone tomorrow what an ass she made of herself? Is that it?" 

 

Bellamy finally seems to have had enough. 

 

"You know I wouldn't do that," he snaps. 

 

"I honestly don't know what you would do," she spits back angrily. "You're confusing as fuck." 

 

The smile that takes over his mouth is feral, and the glint of his pointy canines flashes openly before it disappears. 

 

"Ok," he says slowly, taking one step toward her, then another. She steps back, but there's not much space between her back and the hallway wall. "I'll be clearer." 

 

She rolls her lips, eyeing her high heels flung across the room. 

 

"Go pick out one of my shirts and get into bed. You're sleeping here tonight. Got it?" 

 

She feels the urge to argue but pushes it down when Bellamy's hand lands on her hip, and he walks her swiftly back into the wall. The callouses of his hand bite into her smooth skin, but it hurts in a good way. She nods infinitesimally. 

 

"Good." 

 

And then his mouth is on hers again, and his tongue is sweeping over her own until she can't breathe. He draws back after a moment and kisses her hairline while locking her wrists against the wall just like he did at Arkadia. 

 

"When you wake up, if you still want me to . . . what was it? Oh, right," his eyes darken, " _take_  you, then I will." 

 

Bellamy releases one of her wrists unexpectedly, his fingertips ghosting back over the top of her thigh and slipping under her dress while all she can do is clutch at his side in her surprise. She stiffens a fraction when they brush over the fabric of her underwear. He easily tugs the elastic waist outward, slipping his hand down into her blonde curls for the briefest moment just to feel her wetness. 

 

"That sound fair, Princess?" he rasps. "You should at least have a little time to think about what you're getting yourself into." 

 

His grin is cheeky and ridiculous, and she wants to smack him and climb him like a tree simultaneously when he drags his fingers away from her.  

 

"Is it over in the morning?" 

 

It's the only question floating through her mind. The only one that matters. "Once to get it out of our systems, and then we're done. Is that what you mean?" 

 

Bellamy takes an impossible step closer to her, and she locks her gaze on his freckles, his lips, the outline of his nose before snapping them back to his eyes. 

 

"No, that's not what I mean," he grumbles, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. "If you still want this tomorrow, I think I'll have a hard time letting you go." 


	14. Now. Then. Always.

 

Clarke's pulled her long, wavy hair up into a messy bun, securing it with a tie she found in Octavia's drawer. She stares at herself in the mirror - Bellamy's hunter green shirt is baggy on her, but it's soft. Her feet are carefully tucked away in a pair of blue fuzzy socks (she knew where to rummage around to find them in her best friend's room), and she's already unwrapped the spare toothbrush and brushed her teeth with it.

 

She bites her lip at the reflection staring back at her. Her skin is luminous, glowing really, and her eyes are bright. She runs a tentative finger over the mole above her lip and sways into the counter. Nervous energy is pulsing through her bloodstream even as everything is quiet and still around her. 

 

A rap sounds at the door. 

 

"Come on, Clarke. Enough primping. Let's go." 

 

She jolts in surprise then shakes her head, smirking. Tearing the door open, she faces the raised eyebrows of Bellamy. 

 

"Who says I'm primping?" she asks coyly. 

 

"I lived my whole life with O the Beauty Queen. I know the names of too many perfumes to count, Princess. I know makeup brands no man should recognize, so believe me, I know when a girl's primping." 

 

Clarke smirks but says nothing, pushing past him with a light hand on his chest instead. 

 

"It's all yours!" she calls out as she ambles down the hall, hoping he can't detect the mild tremble in her legs. 

 

There's no way to know for sure, but she thinks she can feel his eyes on her back, hips and legs as she moves away into the darkness. 

 

His room is tidy and mostly sparse like she remembered it, and she sits precariously perched on the edge of his bed, waiting for him to reappear. It was a long time ago, but her mind flicks easily back to the steady beat of his heart against her back and the tight grip of his forearm across her abdomen. She flexes her fingers.  

 

When the door pushes open, and his shaggy curls appear, her chin jolts up in surprise. 

 

"Miss me?" he asks. 

 

She's about to offer a snarky reply, but then she notices how he's watching her, the careful way he seems to be cataloguing everything about her, and her throat suddenly feels parched. 

 

"Yeah," she manages, glancing down at the ground. 

 

He smiles a little and clears his throat. There's a moonbeam sneaking into the space, landing right on his pillow, and Clarke hears the wind whistling loudly in the barren trees outside. She rises to her feet uncertainly, playing with the loose collar of her shirt - his shirt - tugging at it. It smells like him, sweet citrus. 

 

"Nice socks," Bellamy offers, scratching his neck. But when he captures her eye, she sees the glint of humor there and cracks a fuller smile of her own. 

 

"I didn't want you to yell at me like last time," she whispers. 

 

His answering smile is soft, achingly so, as he crosses the room in a few strides and stands in front of her. He tilts her chin up to him with two fingers and leans down to brush his lips lightly across hers. 

 

"I'm not going to yell at you, Princess," he says in a hush. 

 

The shiver zings straight up her spine and suddenly all she wants is for him to hold her. She throws her arms around his torso and squeezes, flattening herself into his chest. 

 

"It's all right," he murmurs, arms coming around her back. He reaches up to pet the sleek blonde hair pulled back near her ear. "You're safe here; you know that. We won't do anything you don't want to do." 

 

"That's not it," Clarke grumbles into his sternum, "But it's sweet." 

 

Bellamy reaches under her shirt and rubs the bare skin on her lower back comfortingly. She feels his laugh more than hears it. 

 

"Ok, then what is it?" 

 

She pulls back and blinks hesitantly up at him, weighing the words in her mind. 

 

"I want to do everything with you," she manages before biting her lip and staring determinedly at the lone aloe plant atop his tall dresser. 

 

She hears him suck in his breath just before he grabs for her hips and hoists her up into the air. She cries out, half with laughter, half with shock, but it's a shriek that's resolved when her legs latch around his waist and he lands a sloppy kiss against her neck. 

 

"Clarke," he groans against her skin, grip tightening around her waist. "You're making this impossible." 

 

"I thought that's what you liked about me," she argues. But then the breath is knocked from her lungs as her shoulders hit the cushion of his mattress, and he presses himself firmly against her core. 

 

"We're going to sleep," Bellamy growls, tugging her wrists up and over her head to pin down near his pillow. 

 

She opens her mouth immediately under his when he kisses her again, arching her hips up, desperate for friction. Clarke's lost in the sensation of his tongue swirling patterns against hers, but not so lost that her skin doesn't prickle and pop where he rubs a hand up and down her ribcage. 

 

"That's not fair," she huffs into his jaw, straining and failing to break the grip he has on her wrists. 

 

"Life's not fair, baby," he trills back, his thumb gliding unexpectedly across her nipple, making it harden almost instantly into a peak. 

 

Bellamy contains her arms with just one of his own and snakes his free hand languidly over her shoulder, down the hollow between her breasts and down lower to the delicate paper-like skin of her inner thigh. She hisses into his mouth, actually biting down on his plush lower lip when his rough fingertips find the bit of fabric guarding her entrance. 

 

"Stop. Teasing. Me." she grits out as he gently starts circling her opening with a lone finger, collecting the wetness that drips out of her easily. 

 

"I'm not teasing you," he returns. "I'm very serious about this." 

 

With a final crushing kiss she swears might bruise her lips, he draws back and releases her pinned wrists. Clarke feels the heated blood flow through her veins freely once more and shakes her hands, lowering them to her sides, bemused. But Bellamy's already sliding gracefully to his feet and pulling back the blankets to create a space to crawl into. 

 

"You're so difficult," she mutters when he tosses a pillow into her side to get her to stand up. 

 

"Thought you always liked that," he says, laughter lacing into his words. He settles down under the blankets still wearing his black T-shirt and a long pair of gray sweatpants. 

 

"I'd like it if you slept with less clothes," Clarke returns but moves onto the bed beside him where he pats the mattress. She does her best to make a show of crawling forward, sticking her ass into the air a little obscenely. She figures he might at least have the decency to look down her top as she moves. 

 

"It's December," Bellamy retorts, wrapping a secure forearm around her waist and tucking her back into his chest. She smiles into the blackness when his bare foot nudges at her sock. "That's why you're wearing these." 

 

She turns her neck just enough to kiss the edge of his shoulder and interlaces their fingers. 

 

A minute or two passes, and she can hear his breathing begin to even out. 

 

"Bell?" she asks quietly. 

 

"Yeah, Princess?" he sounds sleepy. 

 

"I never thought I'd be one of your girls." 

 

She hears the faintest crackle where his eyelashes smack together. 

 

"What are you talking about?" he mumbles, tugging her a bit closer to him. 

 

She sighs. 

 

"I mean, you know, those mornings when I'd be here and you'd had someone sleep over the night before," she doesn't really know why she's rambling, but now that she's started . . . "I never thought . . . I'd be one of them." 

 

She's flat on her back with him hovering over her before she has time to breathe in and breathe out. 

 

"You're  _not_  like one of them," he says fiercely. "That's the whole damn point." 

 

It takes several moments before his words register in her foggy mind, and then she's reaching up to cup his cheek with her palm. 

 

"That might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me," she says earnestly, allowing her hand to slide down to the raised, bumpier skin of his old burn marks. 

 

He shivers slightly but doesn't push her away. If anything, his eyes appear like spilled ink when they settle on hers. "Take this off," she tugs again at the cloth at his sides. 

 

Bellamy gives a small nod and sits back on his knees, pulling it over his head and flinging it to the carpeted floor. It's not like she hasn't seen his bare chest before, but now she can trace her hand up and down the grooves and ridges of his abdomen and rub her thumb over the hardness of muscle at his waist. She opens her thighs like a cradle for him to fall into and has to choke back an emotional noise when he simply rests his head against the cushion of her breasts and wraps his arms around her waist. Clarke traces her fingers up and down his old scars, waiting for his breathing to even out again. 

 

"I'm sorry this happened to you," she leans forward and kisses the top of his dark hair. "I wish I could've stopped it." 

 

"You did help stop it," he mumbles softly. She resumes carding her fingers through his hair absently, relishing the warm weight of him wrapped around her. 

 

"I'm sorry I got so angry at you this summer," he admits after a while. She tries to ignore the jolt that pulses between her legs as his breath coasts over her nipple. "I don't want to feel like that anymore." 

 

"We aren't always the best communicators, are we?" she asks wryly, scratching at his scalp until she senses the tension leaving his neck and shoulders. 

 

"No, but we show up when it counts." 

 

"Like that night you talked me down from my panic attack?" 

 

"Yeah, like that." 

 

"That was it for me, Bellamy. I still remember it." 

 

He's silent. 

 

"Well," she nudges him in the ribs. "Aren't you going to say something back?" 

 

When he tilts back on his elbows and turns his handsome, freckled face to her, his eyes appear deeper and more vast than normal. 

 

"You needed me messing up your life then like you needed a hole in your head, Princess. It just would've been trouble." 

 

"Ugh," she rubs her hand across her face and digs her nails into his chin where she grips him. "Will you stop talking like that about yourself? It's not true!" 

 

"Fine. What do you want me to say?" 

 

"Something real." 

 

He kisses her collarbone, and she presses her inner thigh against his leg in response. 

 

"I felt it then, too," he admits. "But I just figured, you know, you wouldn't want anything with someone like me anyway, and--"

 

"Enough," she puts a white finger up to his lips, silencing him. 

 

A thrill of excitement is coursing through her now, but she's trying to wrestle it into submission. He licks the tip of her finger. 

 

"Ok. What now, Princess?" 

 

"Now you're going to start showing me." 

 


	15. Dawn

"You're so demanding," Bellamy replies, before flopping onto his back next to her.

Clarke's answering pout is half-hidden as she rolls into the nook under his arm, already missing the warmth of his body hovering above hers. 

 

"I seriously don't understand you," she mumbles into his skin, sinking her top teeth lightly into the space over his heart until he makes a choked sound. 

 

It's so weird to think that earlier this evening the barest brush of his fingers against her leg had sent her into a tailspin where now she's got just about every part of her body pressed up against his. Somehow, it feels natural. 

 

He throws his forearm up over his eyes and sighs. 

 

"What's so confusing?"

 

"You just always seemed so . . . " her cheeks turn pink despite it all, " _physical,_ so I don't get why now you're acting like a health poster about abstinence." 

 

Bellamy snorts. 

 

"Trust me. Abstinence is the last thing on my mind."

 

"Ok, then," Clarke says more lightly, her small hand drifting down his thigh toward the slight bulge in his sweatpants, "I can work with that." 

 

His fingers clamp down on her wrist bone and drag her whole arm back across her stomach. Her mouth curves up a bit when he laces her fingers in his though and curls himself fully around her, rendering her quite immobile. 

 

"Soon," he promises. "Now go to sleep." 

 

* * *

A few birds chirp a melody outside Bellamy's window as Clarke drifts back to consciousness the next morning. The room is already filling up with sunlight, and she burrows farther into her pillow, tucking herself snuggly down in his blankets. She cracks one eye open and immediately recognizes her surroundings, a sense of lazy calm flooding through her chest and stomach. It seems out of place but still welcome. When she pushes herself backwards a few inches though, seeking out the planes of Bellamy's chest, she finds nothing but air. Frowning, she reaches out her hand behind her, tangling it in empty sheets. 

 

"Bellamy?" she calls out, pushing the bedsheets away and slowly throwing her legs over the side of the mattress. 

 

There's no answer, but as she pads into the hallway toward the bathroom, she hears the sound of running water and grins. 

 

The bathroom is small but bright purple at Octavia's insistence. The counter's coated with hair care products and fancy perfume bottles, not to mention the glittery nail polish. The mirror is already fogging up from the steam coming out of the shower, and Clarke bites her lip when she catches the outline of Bellamy's torso through the frosted glass. She knocks twice politely - smart and sharp - before pulling off her fuzzy socks and stepping inside. 

 

"Room for one more?" 

 

Bellamy turns his back on the spray, pushing a dark lock of hair out of his eyes. 

 

"Clarke," he tries warningly. 

 

But her eyes are already sweeping fully over him, and she's far from disappointed. 

 

"Good morning," she sings back sweetly, closing the door behind her and stepping forward to allow the spray to coat her shoulders. 

 

The water is seeping down over her chest, causing the cloth to stick to her skin, and she feels her nipples tightening under Bellamy's gaze. With an upward flick of her eyebrows, she steps into his space and curls her arms around his neck. It's sort of fun to watch the brown flee from his eyes as his pupils widen. 

 

"You're sure?" his voice is raspy like he spent the night at a rock concert. 

 

"Depends. Are we really gonna be something, Blake?" she asks, stroking the back of his neck gently. 

 

His hands fold around the sides of her waist and then one presses up into the ridges of her spine. The motion brings her closer to him, and she can't help it, she reaches one hand down and begins softly stroking him to hardness. He doesn't push her away this time. Instead, he shuts his eyes briefly at the sensation and tilts his head back, so the spray of water droplets wash over his dark hair. 

 

"Jesus. I wanted you at Harper's party, Clarke."

 

"That's not what I'm asking," she tugs more firmly, and his eyes snap back open, seeking hers. "If you really want this, if you really want to do it right, then I'm in. If you don't," he catches the tiny flit of pain that crosses her cheekbones, "I should get out of this shower because you were probably right last night, and I don't know what the hell I'm getting myself into." 

 

Her eyes search his face for any sign of an answer while her hand falls away from him. He immediately moves into her, slipping his hands under the heavy, damp fabric sticking to her thighs and letting them settle on her ass. He's hard and heavy between their bodies, and it's becoming nearly impossible for Clarke to ignore the thrum between her thighs. 

 

Bellamy squeezes the space at the very top of her leg as if marking her before running the most delicate hand along her collarbone. 

 

"Clarke," he says roughly. "You have to know by now." 

 

"Have to know what?" she whispers into the small patch of thick air between their mouths. 

 

He smirks when the hand at her back pulls at the elastic band of her underwear, starting to drag it down, and she opens her mouth in surprise. 

 

"That you're the only one who can really drive me crazy," he offers, kissing the very corner of her mouth. "You're the one I pay the most attention to." His lips seek out the pulse at her neck, and she lets her head thud against the tile wall, yanking him closer to her. "You're the one I can't lose." 

 

A second later, her hands join his in the struggle to slip her underwear down her wet legs. He latches around the edges of her shirt and arches one eyebrow up. She nods fiercely, eyes glazing over. 

 

"Please," she says it like a prayer. "I need you." 

 

She lifts her arms, and he works the top over her head, tossing it into the corner before turning his dark eyes to her full, heaving chest. He's a little awestruck, immobile until she slips her fingers into his curls and pulls at the roots. 

 

"Bellamy,  _touch_  me," she demands roughly, and at last, his hand fully engulfs her left breast, squeezing it while his thumb plays with her pink nipple. 

 

All she has to do is arch up on her tiptoes and lean forward a fraction before his mouth is covering hers again, and she can barely breathe. He tastes like mint from his toothpaste, and she's utterly drowning in sensations. Bellamy's pushing her breasts together reverently, and she actually gasps when he bends down and brings his mouth over one, drawing her nipple into his hot mouth and suckling her. Her spine crushes into the wall along with the flat of her palm, but he doesn't pause. 

 

There's an affectionate, almost boyish charm to his face when her eyes flutter open again a few moments later. He's brushing the backs of his knuckles over her stomach, around her belly button, slowly drifting them lower. 

 

"Open your legs for me, baby," he urges in a completely new voice that sets her nerve endings ablaze. "Let me touch you." 


	16. Nicknames

"That's twice," Clarke says. 

 

Her back is sliding on the cold, wet tile of the shower while a steady dampness pools around her inner thighs. Without her true awareness, her hands curve around the space above Bellamy's elbows. His eyes are dark like the bottom of the ocean, and they scan hers briefly before he presses a kiss to her shoulder. The fierce tightening in her core at the brush of his knuckles, the quiet but insistent promise of what's to come, shouldn't surprise her, but it does, slamming into her strong and solid. 

 

"What's twice?" he murmurs into the pink of her skin. 

 

"You called me baby twice," she clarifies to his curls. 

 

His lips move against the slope of her bone and muscle, curling into a smile. 

 

"And what - you don't like that name either?' 

 

Clarke shakes her blonde head made darker by the water. Droplets are sliding down her cheeks and pebbling along her arms and chest. 

 

"Not what I meant," she stitches a quick kiss across the seam of his well-formed lips. "It's just . . . different. I'm not used to it." 

 

But he can see the way her nails are biting into the soft flesh of her palms as she draws back. Her shoulders are a little closer to her ears. 

 

He takes a small step away from her and puts a hand gently on the dip in her waist. It isn't a sexual touch at all; it feels more protective than anything else. 

 

"Clarke, it's ok if we stop."

 

"What?" 

 

Her gaze rockets back up to his in an instant. 

 

"I wasn't saying that!" she protests, though a rosy bloom is tinging her cheeks. The distinct lines of her collarbone jut out where it appears she's caving forward a little at the waist to protect herself. 

 

"You don't have to," Bellamy replies. "I know you." 

 

They stare at each other for an extended moment before Clarke's gaze slips toward the place the water is running down the silver drain with a low, gurgling noise. There's no hiding from Bellamy Blake - he's always there looking too deeply, catching too much. He nods a fraction, and his hand swings back toward his side, though not before Clarke grabs for it and grips tightly. 

 

She bites her lip. 

 

"It's just that--" she falls into silence. Her heartbeat is so loud that she'd be amazed if he can't hear it.  

 

Bellamy's eyebrows draw together. 

 

"Whatever it is, it's ok. You know that, right?" 

 

The deep richness of his tone leaves her toes clutching the floor more firmly for purchase. 

 

He weaves his fingers between hers easily, and with a small sigh, Clarke steps back into him, so his stomach slides once against the area above her belly button. His undeniable arousal is something she can't really ignore, and when the tip of it nudges at her thatch of curls, her eyes glide shut at the sensation. 

 

"Clarke?" 

 

She sucks in a deep breath then says it all in a rush. 

 

"I haven't done this before." 

 

Bellamy turns to one of those Greek statues he so admires right in front of her. 

 

"Wait. What?" he blinks at her. She pulls some comfort from the fact his hand's still wrapped around hers, his thumb stroking circles into the inside of her wrist over her raised, green veins. "But those guys . . . Wick? Atom? . . . What about Roan?" he sounds skeptical. "Not even Wells in high school?" 

 

Her eyes grow large at the last question. 

 

"No!" she shakes her head as if the mere thought makes her nauseated. "He's like my brother, you know that!" 

 

"But he's a guy, and I know how guys are, so--"

 

"What's that mean?" Clarke whispers fiercely, now digging her nails into the tops of his shoulder blades. 

 

It's sort of amazing that she can be within several inches of his mouth and still keep her voice steady and controlled. 

 

"It means you're fucking gorgeous, Clarke. And smart, sassy, a talented artist, nice most of the time . . . "

 

She smirks and slaps his back very gently. 

 

"Idiot," she says fondly. 

 

". . . So is it like a personal, morality thing?" He takes a few steps back, sitting on the small, square ledge shelf crammed in a corner of the shower. 

 

Clarke shakes her head no, allowing her nails to rake over the dark hair of his thighs leading up to his knees when she follows him. She’s the moon orbiting her chosen home planet. 

 

"Ok . . . so then . . . " he lets his unasked question fill the steamy air between them. 

 

"I know it's kind of stupid, but I didn't really ever give up hope that maybe one day you'd want me too--"

 

"It's not stupid," he says roughly, half choked as he suddenly clutches the back of her thigh. She lets out a sharp gasp when his fingers dig into her flesh. 

 

In a moment, he's on his feet and picking her up, so she has no choice but to wind her limbs around him for support. Bellamy turns off the water with a creak and hiss of the handle, and Clarke is suddenly aware of how much body heat he has rolling off him because it's cold everywhere she's not touching him. He kisses her jawbone and neck, smoothing his thumb over the fragile skin between her eyebrows that's puckered into a line. 

 

"It's the nicest thing  _you've_  ever said to  _me_ ," he leans his neck forward to whisper into her ear while her legs tighten around his waist. 

 

"Nicer than that I've loved you for years?" Clarke says with a level of sass diluted with happiness as Bellamy leads them out of the shower and yanks a fluffy, white towel from the rack, one hand splayed across the small of her back. 

 

"That was good, too," he says, emotion making his voice thick. 

 

He walks them back down the hallway, wrapping the towel around Clarke's back and depositing her carefully on the worn, brown carpet near his bed. Hands working rapidly, she dries her body and hair with the towel, squeezing some of the water out, before reaching up on her tiptoes and throwing it around Bellamy's shoulders, patting him dry, too. 

 

He keeps his eyes on her the whole time, expression caught between awe and surprise. Scooting the towel down around his ribs and waist, she feels his hips stutter when she hits the tops of his thighs. Trying to swallow her grin, Clarke drops to her knees, reaches out quickly and licks the tip of his dick, running her tongue in a swift circle. He curses loudly when her mouth closes around him, his fingers tangling in her hair. 

 

"Princess," he moans in pleasure. 

 

Relaxing her throat, she works on taking as much of him as she can without completely restricting her airway. Her small hand strokes his base insistently, reaching down from time to time to cup him until her own walls twitch with want. 

 

"God, that's amazing. You're amazing," he pants raggedly, working to stop himself from thrusting straight into her mouth. 

 

She releases him with a pop at last, eyes sparkling and hazy. Bellamy’s staring at her like she's completely transformed into a new person. 

 

Getting to her feet slowly, Clarke trails her fingertips up his thigh to his stomach before settling them over his erratic heart. 

 

"I'm gonna need you to go slow and be gentle with me, ok?" she says it so solemnly that his ribs may very well explode. "But I do want you."

 

She takes his fingers in her own and slides them up her inner thigh, so they're brushing along her slick folds. Bellamy's knuckle slides against her clit, and she whimpers until he begins circling her opening deliberately. 

 

"I can do that," he says with dark want coating his throat. 

 

"You sure?" Clarke cocks an eyebrow upward. 

 

"I'm sure," he says firmly, walking them backward until the back of her knees hit his rumpled bed. She tumbles back onto it, and he climbs eagerly over her, kissing her hungrily until she's aching for air but still unwilling to stop when he draws back to look down at her. "Because I love you too, Princess." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven’t read “Sometimes words are all we have to hold on to” and “willingly damned,” stop everything and check them out! Yes, they’re that good. :)


	17. Starting Line

 

Clarke's lips part, and Bellamy can see her tongue caught between her teeth. She begins to back up on her elbows toward the pillows at the head of his bed, and he crawls forward to keep up with her movements. A hand on his cheek stills him. 

 

She tilts her head to the side and blinks, a warmth infusing her features. 

 

"You do?" Clarke whispers it into the filtered morning light, the hope of a child crossing through her eyes. 

 

Bellamy offers her a broken smile. 

 

"'Course I do, Princess," he murmurs, nosing against her cheek. "You bake me cakes." 

 

Clarke shrieks in uninhibited delight when Bellamy's teeth latch into the ridge of muscle connecting her shoulder to her neck while his fingers attack her sides relentlessly. His tongue is scratchy and warm as it siphons away the water droplets left there.  

 

"Bell . . . " she huffs, squirming away from his touch, but there's nowhere to go. 

 

He's got her body caged in, and the laughter's caught in her throat. 

 

"Can't you be serious?" 

 

She pushes the hair out of his eyes. He captures her hand and kisses her palm, propping himself up on his forearm and tracing the plump green vein winding into her wrist before gripping her right hip. The movement causes her to open her thighs a little for him unconsciously. His hardness presses into her leg - she only teased him before.

 

"Don't I seem serious?" Bellamy replies, pushing his hips into hers and pulling her knee up around his waist. 

 

Clarke groans. Her skin is flushed and beautiful but somehow still coated in goosebumps, and her eyes focus on his hazily. She jerks upward a little at the feel of his dick sliding momentarily across her folds. Bellamy hisses lowly.  

 

"As a heart attack," she smart mouths back to him. 

 

Bellamy grins. 

 

"Come on, baby, get under the covers. You're cold." 

 

His chest slides away from hers, causing her to mewl. But he squeezes her ass once and nods toward the blankets, pulling them back for her to scramble under. 

 

"Bellamy," she pouts, motioning him forward with a wave of her hand. 

 

"You don't have to tell me twice," he hurries to follow her, tucking the blankets up around his waist while his legs tangle with her cooler ones. 

 

Clarke's hand finds his waist, and she stretches up to kiss the freckles at his shoulder. She closes her eyes in pleasure as his fingers coast up her creamy stomach and land on the large swell of her breast, cupping it fully in his palm. He tweaks her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, capturing her moan with his mouth. 

 

He slides his tongue over hers and feels her knees tighten at his hips. The slickness sliding out of her core is staining the sides of her upper thighs, but her mild embarrassment over it is nothing to when Bellamy's fingers rub purposefully at her swelling clit, his thumb catching her moisture. 

 

"You're wet, Clarke. God, you're already dripping," he husks against her ear, catching the lobe between his teeth. "Are you ready for my fingers?" 

 

They probe at her entrance, and she skims a kiss over his lips before running a hand lazily up his bicep and nodding. She looks casual, relaxed, but he knows better. He sees the line between her brows. 

 

"You tell me if you're not," he meets her eyes seriously. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you, you know that, right?" 

 

"From what I hear, it's supposed be all good things," she quips, showing her teeth with her smile. 

 

Bellamy shakes his head and begins kissing her neck, sucking a bruise there until he feels the tension leave her thighs. Clarke bucks a little when the first, thick finger slides into her, and Bellamy, busy licking a path around her navel, simply holds her hip down and begins stroking the tissue of her wall. She's clutching around him, hot and wet, and his dick twitches in eager anticipation. 

 

"Oh believe me, it will be," he rumbles into the sweet vanilla of he skin. 

 

The second finger sends her back arching off his bed. His thumb is becoming more insistent on her marble-like clit, and her blood is pulsing hotter through her veins. 

 

"There it is, Princess. Let yourself go," his beautiful voice hums over her. 

 

He feels the tremble in her muscles when the pads of his fingers rub up against her inner button. Clarke's awash in sensation, everything tightening past the point she thought possible until she feels so tightly wound she's afraid she'll snap in two. He grits his teeth when her nails scrape long, red marks into his shoulder blades 

 

The orgasm slams into her small frame, and her vision lingers on strange things - the blur of the brown ceiling fan, the cloth ripple of the blanket around Bellamy's shoulders, the awe in his eyes and sheen of sweat slick on his chest. 

 

"Ahh!" she cries out, unable to hold it in. "So good, really good," she tugs Bellamy by the curls at his neck down to her mouth and kisses him sloppily. 

 

"Glad to hear--" Bellamy begins, but his words are lost in a gasp when Clarke's small hand wraps around him and begins to stroke him with a steadier hand than he would have expected. 

 

"Shit." 

 

Something snaps into place in his brain. 

 

"Condoms. I need condoms." 

 

"'S'all right," Clarke slurs, releasing him. Her bones are stretched like silly putty, and it's glorious. "I'm on the pill." 

 

Bellamy raises his eyebrows. 

 

"It helps regulate my cycles," she says. 

 

"Ok . . . . "

 

"What about you?" Clarke abandons his groin, but it's like his brain is under a heavy fog. 

 

"What about me?" he repeats. 

 

"Are you clean?" Clarke smiles. 

 

"Oh. Yeah. Got tested a few weeks ago actually," he returns, drawing his mouth closer to her nipple and giving it an experimental lick. She knots her fingers in his hair immediately at the sensation, and he takes the opportunity to slide more fully on top of her. "Open your legs a little wider for me, Princess." 

 

Clarke rocks against him when the tip of his dick brushes against her still pulsing clit. Bellamy coats himself in her juices, aware of how one of her hands is tangled in his sheets now, clutching them like a lifeline. 

 

"Hey, hey," he pets her side. "It's just me. It's us. And," he glances away at his nightstand before meeting her wide blue eyes. "I really do love you." 

 

"I know you do, Bell," she traces a finger along the path of his freckles across his nose. 

 

She wiggles enough so the tip of him begins to slide inside her. 

 

"I need you to . . . you know . . .  _now_ ," he could get used to the plea in her voice. 

 

"Fuck you?" his smirk is positively lethal when he thrusts his hips forward a tiny fraction, so the head of his dick disappears into her snug, pink channel. 

 

Clarke hisses through her teeth. 

 

"Whatever the hell you want." 

 


	18. I'm Right Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BELIZA HUGGED, PEOPLE. In Boston. I'm so alive right now. I don't even know what to do with myself. So, here, have a chapter. :) xoxoxo (P.S. Bellarke is endgame - Zach said so). ;)

"Ah!" 

 

Clarke's whimper is delicate, and her eyes immediately squeeze shut when Bellamy thrusts his hips forward several inches in one smooth motion. He can feel every one of her sharp fingernails cutting into the flesh behind his arms. She's incredibly slick but impossibly tight around him. The muscle in his left bicep twitches as he forces himself to still completely. He swallows hard. 

 

"Let the breath out, baby," he coaxes, slipping his thumb over her soft cheek. 

 

Clarke feels her whole body seize up around the invasion between her thighs and stares desperately into his face, searching for an anchor. His warm eyes are too rich a brown; they seem to burn her, immobilizing her nerves. She lets her breath go and tries to relax. 

 

"You ok?" Bellamy soothes a hand over her rib cage before squeezing her hip, and the warmth of it calms her jumping muscles a little. "It's ok if you want to--"

 

"No, no," Clarke shakes her chin rapidly. "Keep going."  

 

Doubt creeps into his eyes. 

 

"Clarke--"

 

"I need this. I need you," Clarke rasps determinedly, coaxing a trembling hand back up to the side of his face leaning up a fraction to brush her lips against his. The shift in movement makes her gasp into his mouth. "Go on." 

 

His jaw clenches, and his hand flexes on her hip, but she sees his chin dip. 

 

She rests her shoulder blades back into the crinkled sheets, and Bellamy covers her completely. He's a heavy weight, but she feels somehow more rooted with him on top of her, less like she's spiraling even in her own head. The bed creaks as he withdraws from her, and she sighs fully. His lips press a kiss to her cool forehead, then the corner of her eye before landing on her upturned mouth. 

 

"You're perfect, Princess," he whispers into her ear, and she shivers. There's no way he can really be closer to her - the tips of her breasts and chaffing against his chest - but her core clenches around air desperately nevertheless. Want is pulsing through her chest like she's never felt before - it's a lightning storm of shocks. "I want this to be good for you." 

 

He tilts her chin up, so he's staring into her hazy blue eyes, and she smiles a little. Her lips press harder into his when they meet again. Her knees bite into his hips, and she licks into his mouth, coasting her tongue over the roof of it until he's smirking enough that they can't continue. Clarke rolls her hips upward and pouts at him, skimming her wet folds along his shaft in the process. 

 

"I'm ready for you. I promise," she watches him from below her fan of lashes.

 

Her heart rate kicks up when the bulbous head of his cock presses into her opening once more, but she focuses her attention on his wet mouth at her neck and the blissful suction there as his thickness parts her folds. He strokes the plumpness of her right breast, flicking her erect nipple back and forth just as he breaks through her barrier, catching her moan with his mouth. 

 

"You're fine, Princess. I got you." 

 

"Mmmmm," she manages shakily. 

 

"Shit you feel good," he rasps into her neck, holding himself still and steady until Clarke's hips rock up experimentally to meet him. "You're so tight. Like a vice." 

 

Clarke cranes her neck to kiss the bit of his forearm nearest her head. "Move," she grunts. "Please." 

 

"All right," he hisses, sucking his lower lip between his teeth and pulling out of her a few inches, only to slide back in with mild force. 

 

"Oh ... that's ... God," Clarke huffs as her walls stretch a bit. There's a vein on his cock she can feel grating against a spot deep below her belly button, and it's making her a bit dizzy. 

 

Bellamy draws back once more and thrusts in deeper this time, and her mouth falls open as a spasm of pleasure mixes in with the pain of being stretched open around him. 

 

"Princess, you still with me?" he asks hesitantly, dropping a finger between the thatch of curls framing her clit.

 

She smiles a little, eyes fluttering back open. She's not sure when she closed them. "I'm definitely with you." 

 

His fingertip ghosts over her clit, and she spasms. He feels the clench of her walls and smirks, teasing her a bit more. 

 

"Good," he grins, reaching up to cup her breast before stroking the outer side of her thigh. 

 

His pace picks up after that, and she bucks against him a little sloppily until she finds her rhythm. It's tight and achy, but Bellamy stitches kisses into her hairline and against her jaw bone, murmurs to her how beautiful she looks and how amazing she feels wrapped around him. 

 

She clutches at his bicep, fingers tightening in his dark mess of still-wet curls when he sucks her nipple into his mouth, laving at it with his tongue. 

 

"Good. Yeah. Do that," she barely pants into the still air, her leg twitching against the prickly hair of his own over the blankets. 

 

It's when he starts sucking a bruise into the other breast while his cock knocks into her cervix that the spasming starts. 

 

"Bellamy . . . I'm going to--"

 

"Good, that's what I want you to do," his voice is too deep when he strokes into her with tightly measured thrusts. 

 

It's a frothy wave rising up from her spine, leaving her gasping as her back arches, eyes widening in pure surprise. Bellamy flicks pointedly over her clit, jerking his hips into her several more times before the hot gush of his come fills her. 

 

He's shaking, she realizes, when he falls gently against her moments later. 

 

"That was incredible," she murmurs, dazed, sliding her hand along his side, desperate to keep him close. 

 

Slowly, her arms come around his shoulders. She kisses the top of his head where he nestles against her. Somewhere far off in the natural area surrounding his apartment, one bird calls to another. He doesn't say anything, so neither does she. A tree swaying in the wind casts a dancing shadow over the bed. The moments lengthen, and she breathes better when the length between his heartbeats increases. 

 

"Are you all right?" Clarke finally asks when he still hasn't moved. 

 

He's softening within her, but she hisses anyway when he pulls  fully out of her and rolls over onto his side with a grunt. 

 

She burrows immediately into his sweet-smelling chest, and he wraps his arms around her waist, petting her gently. 

 

"I should be asking you that," he says at last. 

 

"I'm fucking amazing," she says immediately, enjoying how she can feel the laughter in his chest at this response. It aches between her legs, but she's never been happier about a little discomfort. 

 

Then her gut tightens for a moment as a realization hits her. It's very possible she's ...  _not good at sex._

 

"Ummm..." she tries carefully. "Was it ... ok for you?" 

 

"Yeah," says Bellamy easily, scooting back a few inches, so he can look into her face. "You're everything I wanted." 

 

She melts into his lazy kisses after that, more than content when he tickles her side and tells her he's going to make her pancakes. 


	19. Clearly

The buzz of the phone near her left ear makes Clarke wince and open one eye blearily. For a second, she blinks at the bedazzled vibrating rectangle with confusion, but then she smiles. Full sunlight is streaming into Bellamy's room. His crumpled sheets are tucked around her body, and there's a dull ache between her thighs that brings heat to her face at the memory of him moving over her. 

 

As her phone threatens to topple off the bedside table, she grabs for it only to see a long list of notifications. 

 

**Raven Reyes: Are you with Bellamy?**

**Raven Reyes: Are you staying with him tonight?**

**Raven Reyes: Please answer me. I left you two voicemails already.**

**Harper McIntyre: Hey dear! We're a little worried. Text us you're ok.**

**Wells Jaha: Clarke--answer your phone. Where the hell are you?**

**Harper McIntyre: Clarke. Seriously. Answer.**

**John Murphy: So did someone get lucky? ;)**

**Raven Reyes: I swear to God if you don't answer my next call ...**

Clarke groans, and the phone's already ringing before she can properly think to swipe her thumb across the home screen. 

 

"Hey Ray." She sounds croaky.

 

"Don't hey me," comes Raven's crisp tone. "Where the hell are you? Are you all right?" 

 

"I'm fine ... fine." Clarke rolls onto her back and stares at the few grey cracks along the otherwise smooth ceiling. 

 

There's a strange feeling of peace pulsing through her bloodstream she hasn't felt in a long time. The flat of her palm lands on the cool sheets beside her. But then her eye catches on a folded notecard next to the lamp. It says  _Kitchen, Princess_ in Bellamy's block letters. 

 

"So?" Raven's voice is like a hammer to her brain. 

 

"Huh?" 

 

"I said where are you? Murphy told me he saw you leave with Bellamy, but nobody's heard from him either." 

 

There's disapproval in her tone, and it's kind of more upsetting now than it's ever been to hear it. 

 

"I'm at his place. I'm fine. I'm ... happy," she says softly. 

 

"Oh you didn't!" Raven half-groans, but Clarke thinks there's a hint of amusement mixed into it. 

 

"We're not talking about this right now," she replies quietly. 

 

She just heard a pot clang in the next room through the thin walls. 

 

"He better have been nice to you," Raven grumbles. 

 

"Come on, Ray. You like him. You know he's a good guy." 

 

"I know you've been in love with him for several centuries," she admits grudgingly.

 

"Raven."

 

"Yeah, all right, he's ok. I just don't want you to get hurt." 

 

"Bellamy wouldn't do that to me." 

 

"Just ... be careful, all right? And we're still on for girls' night later, right? Harper wants to make tacos." 

 

"Yeah," Clarke smiles. "That sounds great." 

 

***

 

She takes in her reflection in the bathroom mirror after applying the last bit of Octavia's eyeshadow. It's a good thing they're so close because she hates borrowing other people's stuff. She looks decent enough, she figures. Nerves still flutter in her stomach when she slips into a too-long, faded American sweatshirt that Bellamy wore a lot one fall when he coached a kids' football team. It's so long on her it almost hits her knee. She snags a pair of Octavia's leggings, knowing it's the best she can do at the moment. Her polished toes sink into the carpet fibers as she hangs on the edge of the kitchen, watching him work. 

 

He's properly dressed now and cracking eggs into a bowl, whisking them together. The kitchen is sparkling once more; the counters gleam, and the extra food's been stored away. 

 

"Ahem," she clears her throat. 

 

Bellamy stops the movement abruptly and turns to take her in. 

 

"Morning, baby," he smiles easily. 

 

She finds herself grinning back. The whisk barely clatters in the bowl before his hands are at her waist, lifting her up onto the counter. "That's my sweatshirt," he murmurs into her neck as she giggles, wrapping her legs comfortably around him. 

 

"I know," she sings out. "My dress really isn't the most appropriate thing for daylight." 

 

"You looked gorgeous."

 

He presses his lips to hers hungrily and in a moment, she's opening her mouth to him, sighing a little. 

 

"But I think you're pretty sexy like this too," he manages when he comes up for air. 

 

She finds herself melting like butter in a frying pan. Knotting her fingers into his hair playfully, she gives him a pouty face. 

 

"Did our friends blow up your phone, too? Or am I just special?" 

 

He smirks. 

 

"Yeah, we're both too popular for our own good. I just told them you were safe and with me." 

 

She snuggles herself into his chest and lets out a sigh, relishing the way he wraps his arms around her back and pulls her closer. 

 

"I like the sound of that." 

 

***

 

Bellamy's pancakes are exceptional. She helps clean the dishes up since he cooked. He still has a pile of grading to get through, but Clarke has no problem finding a tattered book of ancient myths on his shelf and tucking herself into the corner of his couch while he works, her toes burrowed under his leg for warmth. He squeezes her calf occasionally, drawing patterns with his finger, and it makes her shiver with pleasure every time. 

 

It's about an hour in when Clarke breaks. She can't take him running his hand through his hair one more time. She can't watch him bite the end of his pen as he thinks over a student's essay answer. 

 

"Bellamy .... " she sits up nervously on her knees. 

 

"Yeah?" he looks at her. "You ok? Is there something I can get you?" 

 

Why does he have to look so damn earnest all of a sudden? 

 

"Uh .... yeah." She tilts her head and fluffs her hair behind her shoulder in a way that's supposed to look sexy and inviting. "There's something you can get me." 

 

"Sure, what do you--"

 

The breath leaves Bellamy's chest in a whoosh as she throws one leg over his hips and settles herself as gently as possible into his lap. 

 

"Clarke ... the papers," he argues weakly as a small stack goes tumbling to the floor. 

 

"Shhh," she mumbles, leaning in to kiss his jawline. 

 

His hands feel good at her hips, a little rough, a little tight as he rocks her against him. 

 

"I want to do it again." 

 

Bellamy's laugh is a little gruff. 

 

"That right, Princess? You sure?" 

 

"Yes." 

 

She tilts her hips into him and feels the beginning of his hardness under her. 

 

"Please?" 

 

He raises both eyebrows at her, but she sees the darkness invading his eyes. 

 

"All right, baby. Who am I to deny you?" 

 

When he crosses his arms at the foot of his bed and surveys her, the butterflies spring to life once more. 

 

"What?" she urges, tugging at his arms in a way that makes him laugh. It turns to a choking sound when her nails dig through the fabric of his jeans and coast up his inner thigh. 

 

He grabs a handful of her ass, drawing her closer to his erection with one hand and tilts her chin up with the other to kiss her deeply. 

 

"Can we do something a little different this time?" 

 

Clarke's core spasms. 

 

"Maybe. Like what?" 

 

He turns her gently so her back is flush with his chest and thrusts against her ass. 

 

"From behind, you can take me deeper," he whispers into her ear. 

 

Goosebumps pop up along her arms. She snakes a hand back and around his neck to hold him in place as she rocks into him, grinding slightly for effect. 

 

"Yeah," she barely recognizes her own voice. "Ok." 


	20. Morning Push

"You sure?" 

 

Bellamy's hand smoothes soothingly up the curve of her waist and back down again. Tiny, tingling rockets of want explode in her stomach. She tries to remember to breathe. 

 

"Mmmm," she nods her head. 

 

"Ok, then let's get you out of these." 

 

He tugs the navy blue elastic at her waist, and she hears him drop down to his knees to help her step out of her leggings. She bites her lip when he presses a kiss to the jut of her hipbone. The urge to knot her fingers in his hair is strong, but she keeps her hands at her sides. 

 

The whoosh of cool air stings her skin when Bellamy steps away from her. She starts to turn, but he clucks his tongue. 

 

"Stay put, Clarke."

 

There's the soft sound of cloth hitting the carpet. A moment later, the hard planes of Bellamy's bare chest press against her. His legs are just outside her own, and the scratch of his leg hair against her skin coupled with the way he wraps his arms around her waist and kisses her neck cause her to mewl. 

 

"Let's get rid of these, too." 

 

His warm fingers slide past the edge of her underwear and pull, sending them sliding down her pale legs. It's embarrassing, but she can already feel the moisture pooling between her thighs. She kicks them off with a flourish, sending them almost halfway across the room. 

 

"Like that?" she asks cheekily, glancing up at him over her shoulder and winking.  

 

His laughter is rich and thick like honey. It makes her grin, but he can't see it. 

 

"You're learning quick," he agrees. 

 

He pats her ass lightly, and nudges her forward with a hand at the small of her back. The shift in movement brings the tip of his growing erection brushing against her skin. 

 

"Hands and knees, Princess." 

 

His voice is deep but somehow calming. Clarke can't help herself. She makes a show of crawling provocatively back onto his bed, still clad in his sweatshirt. 

 

"This good?" she arches her back and turns to look at him. The sight of him, hard and ready for  _her_  makes her mouth dry. 

 

His answering smirk is feral. 

 

"Yeah, just like that." 

 

Bellamy kicks her knees apart a bit and smoothes his hand up her thighs, sneaking under the hem of her sweatshirt slowly until his fingers coast through the thatch of blonde curls he finds. She feels her muscles jump with tension and knots her own fingers into his blankets in anticipation. 

 

"Hey," Bellamy shifts to the side and taps her waist until she rolls over to look at him. "Come here." 

 

He pulls her forward a few inches until their knees almost touch and kisses her softly. Clarke melts into the heat of his hand on her low back and lets her tongue glide across his. He still tastes sweet from the syrup. When her eyes flutter back open, he's watching her closely, a bit of a frown forming. 

 

"I'm good. I promise," she widens her eyes with a suggestive wiggle of her eyebrows. "I trust you." 

 

He quirks his head to the side and smiles, tracing the sides of his fingers over the softness of her cheek. 

 

"I never knew why," he returns. "But I'm glad." 

 

" _Bellamy_ ," she rolls her eyes. "You know why. You've always been there for me." She blinks and looks away briefly. "Always." 

 

He's solemn for a moment, offering a tiny jerk of his chin. The weight of her words hovers between them until she reaches out to tickle his sides unexpectedly. He yelps in surprise, but manages to tackle her after a short struggle. She's flat on her back, sweatshirt rucked up to her belly button with him hovering between her legs, panting. 

 

"All right! All right! I surrender!" Clarke cries out. 

 

"You surrender?" Bellamy's grip on her wrists at her sides tightens slightly. The blackness is back in his eyes. A thrill of anticipation surges through her bones. 

 

"I do," Clarke pivots her hips up in search of the tip of his dick against her folds. 

 

"Not so fast," Bellamy clicks his tongue and flips her over effortlessly, so she's back how she started. Except now her ass is pressed firmly against his groin, and she's sure he can feel her dripping from her core. "I promised I would take you like this," he husks into her ear while simultaneously gliding a hand up to squeeze her breast. 

 

Clarke shuts her eyes and rocks back into him when he tweaks her hard nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

 

"You did," she keens, forearms taut. 

 

"And that's what I'm gonna do" he says in a voice that drops so many octaves she's not sure where it came from. 

 

He reaches around her body and pulls her upright, carefully stroking a finger down her clit, making her buck forward into his touch. But he's gone from the sensitive nub as quickly as he arrived, pushing her hair away to kiss her neck. Clarke feels her muscles relax as she rolls her head to the side. He takes advantage of her softening and pushes past her tight opening, sliding inside of her several inches. 

 

"Oh my God," she moans out louder than she intended. The stretch is something like the first time but definitely more intense than before. It's like he's dragging over every nerve ending she never knew she had. "You're big." 

 

Bellamy's grip cuts into her hip. 

 

"Don't worry, I'll fit," his voice lilts upward. As if to prove his point, he draws back before thrusting another two inches deeper into her slick channel. Once there he holds himself in place. Clarke gasps, half-impaled on his dick stretching her open. 

 

He waits for the tension to slip from her shoulders as she adjusts before sneaking a tan hand back to her clit and gently resuming his stroking in time to slow, shallow thrusts that leave her panting and clawing behind her to sink her nails into his flesh. By the time her palms find his sheets again, there's only the slapping of their skin, her groans and his murmurings to get lost in. 

 

"How can you feel this good?" she hears him question at one point. 

 

There's a mild sheen of sweat on him that rubs off onto her as he moves. Clarke rocks her hips backward, almost dizzy from the pleasure streaking through her. 

 

"I'm - I'm," she huffs. "Close." 

 

"Me too," he grits. "You still want me to--"

 

"Yes," she says almost frantically, feeling her walls gripping him for everything they're worth. "Yes, please." 

 

He hums in agreement and seconds later, she feels herself trembling, unable to hold back the tidal wave rushing through her. She gasps when Bellamy's teeth bite into the fleshiest part of her shoulder, and he releases inside her, his hot come splashing into her channel. They collapse together, a tangle of limbs and sweat and heaving breaths a minute later.

 

"Sorry," Bellamy murmurs, bending forward to kiss the place where his bite left a red, circular mark. "Didn't mean to hurt you." 

 

"You didn't," Clarke reassures, running her fingers over his abs. "It just took me by surprise." 

 

"It was too much," he flops flat on his back, and she curls into the hollow created at his side. "Sorry." 

 

"Stop apologizing," she smacks her hand into his stomach. "I said I was fine." 

 

She's beyond fine. She's ... blissful. A chemical blend of euphoria dances in her bloodstream, and nothing has ever smelled as good as the tangy musk of Bellamy Blake. 

 

"Still, I gotta remember," he tightens his hold on her and kisses the top of her wavy hair. "This is new for you." 

 

"I'm not made of glass, Bell," she teases, staring up at him with stars floating in her eyes. "I can take it." 

 

He shakes his head mildly. 

 

"So, just your shoes are made of glass?" 

 

It takes her a moment to get it, but when she does, she swats his stomach until he's laughing. 

 

"My touchy Princess," he closes his eyes, smiling, and basks in the late morning light streaming in through the window. 

 

She's tugging on a pair of Octavia's brown, furry  boots - seriously, she did not think this whole sleepover through - and is about to head for the door to call an Uber when Bellamy's voice sounds from the hallway. He'd gotten an unexpected call from his boss down at Mecha and has been chatting with him for the last few minutes as she scampered around the apartment getting ready to leave. 

 

"Clarke, let me drive you home." 

 

"No, no, it's ok. I'll grab an Uber." She shakes her phone at him. "I don't want to screw up the rest of your day. I know you've got stuff to do." 

 

He rolls his eyes and walks up to where she's standing in the middle of the living room - eventually her heart rate won't kick up every time this happens, right? - pressing a chaste kiss to her mouth. 

 

"Nothing I'd rather do." The words tickle her lips. 

 

"Well ... " Clarke bites her lip. "If you're sure it's not a problem." 

 

Bellamy cups her chin and rubs his thumb over her cheekbone, smiling easily. It warms her up - it's been such a long time since she's seen him really smile. 

 

"Definitely not. Anyway, there was something I wanted to ask." 

 

He steps back and rubs the back of his neck. 

 

"Sure, shoot."

 

A touch of pink colors his cheeks.  

 

"Uh, Wednesday I was going to head over to Polis Heights to see my mom. That's when the visiting hours are a little longer, and I wanted to know if you could come?" 

 

He's adorable, rubbing at his nose and shuffling his feet. It reminds her of the first time she met him, all gangly limbs and freckles, passing Octavia her sticker-covered folders across Clarke's desk. A rush of emotion bubbles up in her chest. 

 

"You don't have to," he adds hastily. "I mean, I know you're busy. But since Octavia's in France, I thought--"

 

His words halt as Clarke thuds into him, wrapping her arms securely around his waist and burrowing her nose into the dip in his neck that seems specially designed for her. 

 

"Of course I'll come," she whispers, sensing his lungs expand and collapse as he lets out a breath. "I'd love to." 

 


	21. Doll House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. That line's on purpose. Because of 501. I'm bitter, even if I knew it was coming. I'm just bitter. Let's everyone write stories where Bellarke are super happy together with their 17 kids, ok? Great! Good talk.

**August 2010**

"But Bellamy! You said you would!" 

 

Clarke pouts out her pink lower lip at him and bangs her legs against the chipped, white cabinets in frustration. 

 

"Easy on the furniture," Bellamy slides past where she's sitting up on the counter near the sink, reaching over her head to pull a large pot down from a high cabinet. 

 

"Bell!" she urges again, digging her fingertips into the cotton of his loose-fititng shirt and forcing his attention back to her. He's a little sweaty from picking tomatoes out in the back garden, and there's a smudge of dirt curling up the side of his neck. 

 

"Listen, I already told you. We're doing morning football practice this semester. I don't have time to make it all the way across town just so the Princess doesn't have to ride the bus." 

 

"Ugh!" Clarke snorts, dropping her hand. "So unfair! You're gonna drive Octavia. And it's  _high_   _school_ , Bell! The other kids will laugh at me! Don't you even care?" 

 

Bellamy throws her a half-smile as he begins boiling water for the spaghetti. 

 

"She's my sister. Of course I'm taking O. And you'll be fine - you can take care of yourself. I have absolute faith in you." 

 

With a huff, Clarke jumps down from the counter and continues mixing the salad ingredients together. 

 

"Wish I had a built-in chauffeur," he hears her mumble over the hiss of the stove he turns on to begin cooking the tomato sauce. 

 

He glances back at her where she's slicing a long carrot angrily in her light-colored shorts embroidered with flower designs. It's the edge of summer, and her legs are deeply tanned, all the way down to her paler bare feet resting on the tired floor of the Blake kitchen. Her hair is frizzy from the heat and curling. He can make out the beginnings of a frown on her face and smiles a little. 

 

"You'll have a license before you know it and some ridiculous red sports car daddy buys you," he throws over his shoulder. "My super sweet 16."  

 

There's something absorbing about the rich red froth of the tomato paste as it begins to heat and stretch into something more liquid-like as he adds in herbs and spices. He's absorbed in the color and simplicity of stirring, so much so that he doesn't see Clarke until she's right by his side, inches away. 

 

"Maybe," she lands what feels like a purposeful hand on his bicep, pressing it lightly there. "But I wanted  _you_ to be the one to take me." 

 

The gurgling gulp in his throat must be audible because Clarke's lip curls up into a sort of smirk. Her blue eyes are too sparkly, the tiny mole on the corner of her mouth taunting him. But that's  _insane_. She's barely a teenager, and he's 16. She doesn't know what the hell she's saying. The wheels in his brain clunk heavily against each other. But he's saved from responding by the slam of the garage door. 

 

"Hey, baby," Aurora drawls out to her son. 

 

It's nearly 5:30 p.m., but Clarke gets the distinct feeling that Aurora hasn't been home all day. Her heels are gold and much too high. Her purple lycra skirt too short and tight. The beaded earrings drooping from her ears jangle when she steps wobbly into the room. 

 

"Oh, you're here," her voice falls flat at the sight of Clarke. "I thought it was a sleepover. Don't guests generally go home in the morning?"  

 

The blonde's eyes go wide, and she drops her hand from Bellamy instantly, taking a step back. Aurora's never been much of a fan of hers since her mother called the cops on her. 

 

"I ... I was just leaving," Clarke squeaks, making a beeline for her beat-up sneakers nestled under the kitchen table. When she sits down to slip them on, she realizes Bellamy's positioned himself between Clarke and his mother. 

 

"I think that's best, dear," Aurora sends her a hardened smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Probably not smart if you're alone with Bell, anyway. You're not a little girl anymore, Clarke." 

 

The blood is beating in Bellamy's ears so hard and fast that he's struggling to think. Off to his left, Clarke looks like the tomatoes he was just picking. 

 

"Where's your sister?" 

 

The question is like the sharp crack of a whip. 

 

"She had a dentist appointment, remember?" Bellamy croaks. "It's only two stops on the metro, so I let her go herself." 

 

Aurora nods, eyes bloodshot. 

 

"Fine. I'm going to take a shower. You can find your way to the metro too from here, can't you Clarke?" 

 

She raises one eyebrow then takes off for the darkened hallway toward her bedroom, leaving a long and awkward silence in her wake. Bellamy walks to the stove and turns down the heat on the sauce, not meeting Clarke's eyes. 

 

"Let me drive you home," he mumbles. "You live too far for the train." 

 

"No, it's ok," Clarke says quietly. "I'll call my dad." 

 

**December 2017**

 

Even though Polis Heights is not a senior living facility, it sort of smells like one. Clarke tries not to glance rudely into some of the rooms they walk past. Most of the residents'  doors are closed anyway, decorated with wreaths, red and green shiny tinsel, and cardboard gingerbread men for Christmas and Hanukkah. About halfway down the hall, an older man gives a fierce whoop - of delight or destruction it's hard to say - as his hazy brown eyes land on them. Bellamy's fingers latch more tightly on her own. 

 

When they reach Aurora's door, he falters, knuckles a few inches away from the wood. Clarke drops the shopping bag full of gifts at her feet and stands on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his stubbled cheek.

 

"I'm right here with you," she whispers into his neck. 

 

He squeezes her side and nods, pushing the door open. 

 

"Oh, look, Aurora! You've got some company today!" a bright voice calls out. 

 

It belongs to a young woman with dark, shoulder-length hair and a kind smile.  _Maya_ Clarke quickly reads the name on her ID badge. 

 

Clarke bites her lip and rests her back just inside the doorway, unsure exactly what to do. The weight of the shopping bag makes its woven paper handle cut into her skin, so she sets it down by her boots. Aurora's face has sunken in from the last time she saw her. Her hair is still long, but limp and lacking luster. There are the traces of Blake beauty around her cheekbones, but they're fading. Her dark eyes though seem strangely sharp considering her condition when they land on Bellamy. 

 

"Bellamy, you came," she smiles thinly, and holds out a hand for her son. 

 

He takes it, dropping down to his knees in front of where her thin frame is perched on a rocking chair. 

 

"'Course I did, Mom," he smiles wide and beautiful. "Merry Christmas." 

 

It's not so bad, really. Clarke chats pleasantly with Maya as Bellamy takes advantage of this rare window of lucidity. Aurora smiles at her a few times, but Clarke's not convinced she really knows who she is. After about an hour, she digs through the large handbag she brought and pulls out a few bottles of nail polish and creeps forward at Bellamy's hand gesture, dropping them on the small table beside the woman. 

 

"Umm, would you like me to paint your nails? Any color you'd like!" she tries to smile. 

 

It takes Aurora several moments, but she settles on Metallic Cranberry. Clarke takes her smooth, cool hand in her own and begins running the polish brush in steady strokes across her nails while Bellamy speaks to Maya about Aurora's continuing care out in the hall. 

 

"You're a pretty girl, Clarke." 

 

She's so surprised, she nearly smears the red paint across Aurora's hand. 

 

"Oh. Thank you, Mrs. Blake," she returns after finding her voice. 

 

"Are you making him happy?" 

 

Aurora looks so earnestly into her face that she feels emotional despite herself. 

 

"I think so," she answers as honestly as she can. "He's made me really happy my whole life." 

 

"Good enough," Aurora closes her eyes and rests her head back on the back of her chair, barely rocking. "I knew it'd be you. In the end." 

 

Clarke feels Bellamy's gaze on the side of her body and turns toward the hallway. He gives her a tiny smile, but she can see the worry lines crowding in around his eyes as Maya speaks. 

 

Before they leave, they watch Aurora open a few of her gifts. She allows Bellamy to hang the painting of the sea shore Clarke worked on over the last few days  up on the wall above her bed. 


	22. The Silent Stars Go By

Clarke shuts the African art history book she was reading and tugs the quilt closer to her chin. This December has been bitingly cold, and the heater in their apartment isn't the most reliable. She's technically only been official with Bellamy for nine days, and she's already turned into one of those people who can't sleep well without her boyfriend tucked around her. She kind of hates herself for that. And she also kind of loves it. It's just that Bellamy is so  _warm_ and _cuddly_ when he's not being an ass. 

 

_"Hey! That looks like a cute restaurant for us to try sometime," she'd said to him yesterday as they walked through a downtown D.C. dusted with snow and twinkling with decorative lights._

_"Which one?"_

_"There!" She'd pointed. "On the corner. The Chick Cafe with the striped awning."_

_Bellamy squinted his dark eyes obscured by glasses and laughed._

_"Chic, Princess. It's French. Didn't you learn all the foreign languages in finishing school?"_

_She punched his arm while he grinned widely at her, tucking her against his chest and dropping a kiss to the crown of her blonde head._

_"I thought the snow was blocking the "k,"" she grumbled into the scratchiness of his sweater._

 

She smiles a little bit into her pillow now that she's alone, and after taking a sip of water from her nightstand, she's about to settle down to sleep when a rap on her window startles her. Clarke jumps up at the sign of black, messy curls and tan skin pressed near the glass. 

 

"Jesus, Bellamy," she chastises him as she yanks the window up with a Herculean effort. "What are you doing here?" 

 

He gives her a lopsided smile and takes a step back on her rickety fire escape, shoving his hands into his pockets. She sees they're chapped from the stinging air. 

 

"I, uh ...." he looks off to the left, "missed you, all right?" 

 

Her answering smile is the sunrise. 

 

"Well, come on," she tugs the window up higher, goosebumps erupting up her bare forearms and motions him forward. 

 

He clambers through the opening without too much effort and slams the window down tightly, locking it back into place with a snap. 

 

"Hey, babe," he draws her into his chest by the waist and then she can't think, can barely breathe as his chilled lips move slowly and methodically over hers, taking their time. It makes her head spin. 

 

"You're so cold." She squeezes firmly around his middle then insists on helping him get out of his coat and running her hands briskly up and down his arms. "Why didn't you use the front door?" 

 

His laugh is short and dry. 

 

"I didn't want to risk Raven answering it." 

 

Clarke rolls her eyes. 

 

"She's coming around." 

 

"She threw a pack of hamburger buns at me two days ago." 

 

"Only because you said NASA was a waste of money," she returns, flopping back down onto her bed. 

 

"But it IS," he argues, "I'm not saying space isn't amazing, but think about all the people in this country alone who go hungry while we spend millions and millions of dollars taking pictures of Neptune and--"

 

"Bellamy!" She tugs at his brown leather belt, yanking him closer to her by his waist. "I heard all of this already." 

 

He runs a hand through his hair and bends down to kiss her. 

 

"Sorry," he chuckles into her jaw. "But I don't remember you saying you agreed." 

 

"Do I have to agree with everything you say to be with you?" she asks coyly, slowly unbuttoning his shirt and dipping her hand inside to feel his tan skin. 

 

"Maybe," he hedges playfully. 

 

She laughs, loud and bright, hooking the heel of her foot behind his knee and tugging him securely on top of her, moving one of his hands up to cover her breast. "How about now?" 

 

"Not so much now," he murmurs, mouth latching on to her pulse point. 

 

***

 

Lemon sunlight floats into the bedroom, illuminating small bits of dust that glide about near the window. She's glimmering with a sheen of sweat, one palm pressed into the wall behind Bellamy and the other on his shoulder. Her thighs tremble, but he keeps running the edge of his nail across her nipple, making it almost painfully hard. 

 

"There you go, Princess. Ease down," he coaxes. 

 

His dick has been stroked to velvet hardness by her careful hand, and it's wet with his precum. She jolts, the tingle flying straight up her spine when his hand on her hip rocks her clit against the head. He makes her tap against him, and she bites down on her jutting lower lip, wanting nothing more than to bury her face in his musky neck. 

 

"You're big," she sighs, and he's unsure if it's a protest or just an observation. 

 

"I remember someone helping me get here," he mutters, weighing the heavy flesh of her right breast in his palm.

 

Still, she hovers on her knees just above him, allowing only the tip of his erection to part her swollen folds. "There you go, relax," Bellamy encourages, twisting his lips down to kiss the top of the hand braced on his shoulder. She slides a little farther, and he hears the immediate intake of breath, touches the heated skin above her opening lightly, stroking her, and she whimpers when his hand shifts lower and begins to rub at her clit insistently. She shutters again. With great control, he pulls his hips back and settles her on her side right next to him on the blanket, leaning forward to lick nto her mouth while his hand keeps up the pace between her thighs. She flicks her tongue over his hard when he pushes a thick finger into her, and it's quickly followed by a second. 

 

Slowly he works them deeper into her, in and out again. "God," she mumbles, head lolling against his shoulder. "You're slick, Clarke. Can you feel it?" 

 

He glides his fingers out of her and brings them to his mouth, licking them clean. She looks away, embarrassed. 

 

"I feel it," she says softly. 

 

It's honestly ridiculous how much he affects her. 

 

He resumes sucking a bruise to her collarbone as she shifts one leg back over his hips. 

 

"I think it'll be fine," he whispers reassuringly into her hair. "But if you don't want to do it, it's no big deal."

 

Clarke's eyes narrow, and she shakes her head. Her wetness sildes against his pubic hair, but she burrows her nose against his neck and presses into his chest anyway. 

 

"I want you every way I can take you," she huffs. 

 

He chuckles, stroking up the ridges of her spine. 

 

"That's the spirit, Griffin. Let me make you feel good while you do it the first time, ok? Take your mind off it." 

 

She nods, the heated coil buried in her gut flaring to life. Settling back, she feels his hardness pressing into the curve of her ass as his hands start running the length of her sides, clutching at her thighs. He manipulates her breasts confidently, murmuring how he loves them, and a spike of molten heat floods her core when he leans in to lick and suckle them. Clarke throws back her head wantonly, digging her fingers into his curls and drawing him closer. The gasp is music to his ears when his thumb lands hard and insistent on her clit, nudging the hood back. He feels her muscles tightening as she rocks her hips into him and smiles against her lips, kissing her possessively. 

 

She's more malleable now, and he wraps both hands around her waist helping to lift her over his stiff cock. 

 

"There you go, easy," Bellamy's throaty voice is almost too much for her. She wants to cry out as she sinks down onto him, taking him in several inches this time and clutching for his hand to interlock their fingers. 

 

"Oh my God, Oh my God... ohmiGod," Clarke rasps as she finds her rhythm, letting his calloused palms guide her up and then back down again, so her body will accept more of his girth. It stretches her open in a glorious way but also makes her feel stuffed and hyper-sensitive as she watches more of him disappear inside her. 

 

"You like that, don't you?" Bellamy teases her, reaching around to squeeze her ass. "Watching your little pussy swallow up my cock?" 

 

She nods frantically, all sorts of energy buzzing through her and building... building, as he begins to thrust up into her carefully, gently forcing her to accept more of him. When the head of his cock rubs rough along a certain spot buried inside her, her toes clench, and her mouth falls open. 

 

"There," she rocks herself into him. "There, again." 

 

"You got it," he slams his his hips repeatedly into hers until she's trembling again, seeing rainbows of light behind her eyes. Right as the cry leaves her throat an abrupt knock sounds at the door, followed by the sound of the knob turning and Harper materializing in the doorway, looking down at her phone as she says, "Hey, Clarke could I borrow your car for the morning to--"

 

She shrieks, throwing her arm up over her eyes and backing up, slamming into the wall and rattling the framed drawings there before scurrying toward the door. 

 

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I didn't know!" she calls out, slamming the door closed behind her just as Bellamy's thrust unleashes a wave of euphoria through Clarke's body. 

 

"Fuck!" Clarke moans, and he knows only half of it is for his performance. She collapses into his chest moments later, panting.

 

She glares at him when he starts to laugh. 

 

"It's not funny!" she hisses. 

 

"Harper's cool, she won't care," he kisses her shoulder. "She didn't know you had company."

 

"Knocking's not a big thing here," Clarke grimaces. 

 

"I can tell." 

 

"It's not a big deal, relax, Princess. People have sex." 

 

He lays a chaste kiss on her pink lips before taking her small hand and holding it to the flesh an inch above her opening. She wiggles her hips. 

 

"You're still hard," she looks into his dark eyes, which glint at her. 

 

"I'm still hard," he agrees. 

 

She half-shrieks, half-laughs when he flips them over adroitly and continues to slide into her sensitive heat, bringing her to orgasm once more before he releases inside her. 

 

"Were two orgasms worth the embarrassment?" he asks her several minutes later, stroking her hair while she's too lazy to move off his chest. 

 

"Uggggghhhh," Clarke groans into the bone of his shoulder. 


	23. Sunlight Over Water

 

Clarke's cute when she's sleep-deprived and annoyed with him. Bellamy smiles widely at the sight of her in black corduroy pants, fuzzy ankle boots and an oversized, emerald green knit sweater. There's a wool hat pulled low near her hazy eyes, and she's got a thermos of coffee held tightly in both hands in front of her chest as she shuffles across the parking lot toward his truck. A very light snow is beginning to stick to his windshield. 

 

"Good Morning!" he says cheerfully. 

 

She grimaces at him, flinging herself into the car and shutting the door hard behind her. 

 

"Nothing is good before 9 a.m. on a Saturday." 

 

"I beg to differ." 

 

He leans into her, still smiling, and presses his mouth gently to hers. Clarke sighs despite herself, pulling him a little closer with a hand knotted in his pullover and letting him deepen the embrace. When he finally leans back, she's lightly panting, and her lips are swollen. 

 

"You were saying?" 

 

Clarke hits his arm. 

 

"I'm still not over The Harper Incident," she insists, though she cranks up the heat and proceeds to snuggle into her seat, tipping her head back and closing her eyes. Bellamy chuckles, throwing her a glance as he drives out of the complex. With her loose, blonde waves spilling over her shoulders, she looks a bit like an angel. But he has a feeling telling her that won't do much for her mood. So he runs a finger across the soft skin of her hand instead, pleasantly surprised when she turns it around to hold his. 

 

He lets her play bright, bubbly pop as they circumnavigate D.C. She waves to the Washington Monument, as is her custom, and then lets the rhythmic sway of Bellamy's old truck lull her into a half-doze. Weak, filtered lemon sunlight is breaking through the clouds when she realizes they've missed the exit for the Smithsonian. 

 

"Bell? What's going on?" 

 

"It's your Christmas break, Princess. I decided not to bore you with facts and figures about the Ancient Egyptians." 

 

"But you love all that stuff," she pokes him in the side though not hard enough to hurt. 

 

He shrugs. 

 

"I found us something a little more low-key to do." Large, green overhead signs are coming up, and Clarke crinkles her eyebrows when he gets into the right-most lane, headed to Baltimore. "Consider this a Day Trip." 

 

Still confused, she can only shake her head and go with it. "All right, but we need to be back here by five-thirty if we're gonna make it to my mom's in time for dinner." 

 

Bellamy swallows hard once, and she catches the lines etched momentarily around his eyes. But then the moment passes, and he nods agreeably. 

 

*** 

The aquarium is a work of art. Sitting at the edge of the placid Patapsco River, it's a joining of sharp angles, bright colors and glass. Clarke gasps in delight as they approach. 

 

"I've been wanting to come here for ages!" Clarke exclaims. "How did you know?" 

 

"I didn't," Bellamy replies, carefully sweeping a few stray Egg McMuffin crumbs from her pants into the brown paper bag. "But you spent half of last year obsessed with those Blue Planet-type Netflix documentaries, so I figured..." 

 

He's unprepared for her to unsnap her buckle, pivot his chair backward like an expert and climb into his lap.

 

"You're really something else, you know that, Blake?" Her eyes are soft, her face open when she strokes the side of his face. "Better than anything I dreamed." 

 

"I think your expectations have just been too low." 

 

He bites his lip and glances down, suddenly bashful. When he looks back up at her through his shaggy bangs, golden light shoots through her veins. Bellamy braces his hands at the small of her back, climbing them up the bumps of her spine carefully through her thick sweater until reaching the cool skin of her neck where he plays with the tiny curls spiraling there. 

 

"I'm trying to be serious here." 

 

"So am I," he argues, then after a pause adds, "You're pretty spectacular yourself. More than I deserve." 

 

His favorite line appears between her eyebrows before she swoops in to cover his mouth with hers. His kiss tastes like hazelnut coffee, fueling her hunger as she skims her teeth along his jawbone before biting the tan muscle bridging his shoulder and neck. Her hips roll against his a few times of their own accord, and the rumbling groan she hears in return turns her on even more than the feeling of him hardening against her. Her fingers dip between them, expertly unbuttoning his jeans as she slides to the side, wrapping her hands under their waistband. 

 

"Clarke." He stills her with a thumb swipe to the silk of her cheek, shaking his head. 

 

She glances around, feigning innocence. 

 

"It's super early in the corner of a mostly deserted parking lot. Who's gonna see?" 

 

His answering smile is crooked. Her laugh is the sound of silver bells on decorated street corners. She makes short work of dragging his jeans and boxers down to his knees, taking a moment to admire the pink perfection of his cock before leaning in to lap innocently at the head. A tang of salt coats her tongue when she flicks it over his slit. Bellamy's hum and answering grip on her shoulder is the best Christmas present as far as she's concerned. 

 

"Just relax," she whispers against his thigh, dropping a kiss there before reaching her arms awkwardly behind her in the cramped space to unhook her bra. It hangs loosely off her frame under the floppy sweater, and she guides Bellamy's right hand up along her stomach until he covers the sensitive flesh and begins kneading it on his own. 

 

"Your tits are amazing, Princess." 

 

Gripping his knee, she gives him one last devious smirk before wrapping her strawberry glossed lips around him, relaxing her throat to take him as deep as she can. She gags the slightest bit when the slant of his head juts into her soft pallet. Bellamy immediately smooths wisps of hair from her eyes, but she gives an infinitesimal shake of her head and just takes more of him. When he pounds his hand into the seat and moans but fights to still the bucking of his hips, she releases him, swiping away the saliva that slips toward her chin. 

 

"Bellamy. Bellamy!" 

 

His unfocused eyes find her sparkling blue ones. 

 

"I want you to fuck my throat. So do it." 

 

And with a bat of her eyelashes, she goes right back to work. 

 

"Jesus," Bellamy grits, but he allows his hips to move a little now, gripping his seat with white-brown fingers before giving in and tangling them in Clarke's hair, pulling her face a little closer to his groin. 

 

"So good ... you're so good, babe," he hums his encouragement. 

 

She works her tongue over him in teasing dips and waves as best as she can, feeling the pulse of want between her legs but ignoring it. Sensing the tightness in his thighs and the clutching grip of his hands she hollows her cheeks and uses the last bit of effort to make him release inside her mouth. Bellamy slumps back into his seat, eyes closed, just as a minivan pulls in a few spots down from them. 

 

"Shit," he murmurs, glancing surreptitiously to his left as Clarke releases his cock. 

 

"We have company?" She raises up an eyebrow, wiping a dab of his cum off her lip with the tip of her tongue. 

 

"Yeah." He holds her gaze for several moments, his own dancing with mischief. "Turn around, so I can hook you back up." 

 

Bracing her forearms against her own seat cushion, Clarke shivers when Bellamy's hands sweep up her back and fix her bra before hurrying to push himself back into his boxers and jeans. 

 

"I owe you later," the promise has a tinge of gruff darkness to it. 

 

"You don't," she tries to protest but he's already kissing her, making her laugh and gasp for air. "I do," he slides a hand between her thighs and cups her insistently. "And I'll pay up." 

 

~~***~~ 

 

She laughs at how the mushroom tops of the golden-orange jellyfish shake and shimmy as they move through the enormous aqua tank, pointing out a particularly funny moving one to Bellamy, who's standing behind her, arm snaked around her waist. He keeps his hands shoved in his pockets for the most part, allowing her to chatter happily, one hand looped through his arm, about the parrots and exotic flowers in the tropical rainforest exhibit. Clarke screeches with glee when she gets to pet and feed one of the dolphins, not even minding when it splashes her with its tail, half-coating her pants in water. Later, they stroll quietly through the tunnel where larger ocean beasts swim past overheard, a big-toothed Sand Tiger Shark coming a little closer than Bellamy would care to admit he feels comfortable with. 

 

But it isn't until they're having lunch when the topic he knew was coming, the one he'd been avoiding, hits. 

 

"I want to talk about your mom's situation at dinner tonight," Clarke tells him steadily in their booth by the window. 

 

Bellamy grips his fork harder, digging it into a final piece of grilled chicken. "I'm going to figure this out on my own. I already told you. I'm not asking your mom - or anybody else - for money. It's my family--"

 

"Your responsibility, yeah, I know," Clarke cuts in. "But Bell, come on, I've known you since I was eight years old. We're ... " she swallows noticeably. "Kind of family too, right?" 

 

He tilts his head, apparently taken aback and considering it. 

 

"I'm supposed to take care of you, Clarke. Not the other way around. 

 

She smiles sadly at that. 

 

"It's the twenty-first century, Bell. We can take care of each other, can't we? Would you at least consider it - please?" 

 

He stares out the window for a long time before facing her again. "I wouldn't be able to pay her back for the type of care she could afford. I'm a teacher who works at a garage and bar tends sometimes. How would I ever get the money? It took a long time just to scrape together the cash to send Octavia on a study abroad trip." 

 

She glides her hand across the table to squeeze his. "You don't have to pay her back. She wants to do it--"

 

The stone settles into his face almost instantly. " _Clarke._ Tell me you  _didn't_ already talk to your mom when I asked you not to." 

 

Clarke starts tearing bits of the paper napkin on her lap, and he pushes the tray away from him angrily. 

 

"Why couldn't you just respect what I wanted?" He stands up, voice only raising a degree or two, and she jumps to her feet as well. His bicep rolls impressively when he lurches forward for his tray. 

 

"Please, Bellamy. Just listen, ok? I was just trying to help! I love Octavia. I-I l-love you. I want your mom to have the very best care, and my mom agrees. It's just the two of us, and we have more than we need. You two are my family as far as I'm concerned. So ... so why shouldn't I help take care of you, too?" 

 

Clenching his teeth, Bellamy shakes his head. "Because I asked you not to," he widens his eyes at her. "But you did what you thought you had to do, like always. I shouldn't be surprised." 

 

His grip on the thin, plastic tray is so tight, and she can feel his anger rolling toward her in waves. He shakes his head again, before turning on his heel and walking toward the door. 

 

She lets go of a deep sigh she didn't realize she was holding, scrambling to pick up her own trash and hurry after him. 

 

 


	24. Smoke Signals

The stitch slices into her side. It leaves Clarke gasping for breath as she chases Bellamy's tall, brooding figure down shadowy ocean exhibits where the cast of blue light from the tanks causes an eerie glow to swirl around her. She catches his leather jacket making its way quickly toward the green exit signs hanging at the end of the hallway over the aquarium's lobby archway. She didn't know he could move so fast, but his legs are a lot longer than hers. 

 

 

"Bellamy!" she yells, causing a mom wrangling her toddler into a stroller to stop and stare. 

 

He doesn't turn around. 

 

The glare of the sun hurts her eyes when she reaches the lobby, which is now flooded with families, couples and groups of friends waiting on line for tickets. It was so much quieter this morning. She loses sight of him for a few moments, spinning around helplessly, too short to see over the taller people surrounding her. A sick nausea settles in her stomach when she notices a tan hand running through black curls before slamming through a swinging glass door leading to the parking lot. 

 

"God," she mumbles to herself, running in earnest now to catch up with him. 

 

"Bellamy, stop!" she shouts when she makes it to the middle of the paved parking lot. 

 

He's already reached the truck, and she can sense the waves of anger rolling off of him with every step she takes closer to his taut frame frozen by the door, one hand on the door handle. 

 

"Bellamy, please," Clarke drops a numbing hand onto his forearm, the cold leeching into her violet skin. 

 

"Don't." 

 

The gruffness of it makes it difficult for her to swallow. She tries to breathe deeply and brushes some light, icy snowflakes off his jacket. Snow still falling through the air when the sun's out is not something she remembers ever experiencing. 

 

"I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have said anything." 

 

He stiffens immediately.

 

"Get in the car, Clarke. We're leaving." 

 

***

 

Clarke flings herself down on her bed an hour later with a groan, her boots dangling over the edge. She didn't get more than three words out of Bellamy on the drive home; instead, he blasted rock music and stared straight ahead, weaving dangerously between trucks on the highway to get back to D.C. as fast as possible. He finally looked at her when he pulled back into the parking lot of her complex. 

 

"Bellamy," she'd tried one last time as the engine rumbled noisily. "Please talk to me. I know I shouldn't have said anything to mom, and I'm  _sorry._ But she's known you since we were kids. She likes you; she  _wants_ to help, and-" She didn't realize her hand had traveled to his thigh until he abruptly shook her off. 

 

"I didn't ask for her help. I don't want it," he grit out. 

 

"Ok," she said bracingly as level-toned as she could. She dropped her hands to her lap and rolled her watch around and around her wrist. "That's fair. I know you didn't. But, Bell, you know I wasn't trying to hurt you."

 

"It's not always about intentions, Clarke. Sometimes it's about effects." 

 

She squeezed her eyes shut because at some level, she knew the truth running through his words. The tightening in her stomach had been proof enough of that. 

 

"Baby, you're right. I should've respected what you wanted and not tried to push this thing with my mom on you."

 

He had blinked and run a hand through his hair, pulling at it harder than necessary.  

 

"I'm not going to the dinner, Clarke." 

 

She stared at him, mouth partly open, biting down on her tongue. Something had shifted in the air between them as the snowflakes fell heavier against the smudged glass of Bellamy's windshield. A dull ache was building somewhere over her right ear. 

 

"Please don't do this right now," she whispered. 

 

"I need some time to think." 

 

"But it's Christmas," she didn't recognize her own voice. 

 

Bellamy's Adam's Apple bobbled. 

 

"Happy Holidays, Clarke." 

 

***

  

"Griffin! Move that cute little ass of yours, babe! Wells and I are headed to the airport in twenty minutes, and I wanna see you before I go." 

 

Clarke sighs and glances at her cell phone, where her notification screen remained blank despite the several texts she'd sent Bellamy in the last few hours. Raven knocks hard against her door again, and she hides her damp cheeks in the pillows. She'd tried to nap after the early morning start, but it had been useless. She kept seeing the hurt flash in his dark eyes, the way the jaw in his muscle clenched when he'd told her about the schizophrenia that night on his couch. The delicate way he'd held his mother in his arms during their visit to Polis Heights. She'd screwed up, and she knew it. The hollow pit in her gut seemed to double in size. She hit the message app. 

 

**Clarke Griffin:** I'm sorry, Mom. We have to cancel on dinner. 

 

**Abby Griffin:** Why? What's wrong? 

 

**Clarke Griffin:** Bellamy had to work an extra shift at Mecha. 

 

She drummed her fingernails on her bedside table, waiting for the inevitable harp sound to emanate from the sparkling, rectangular box. 

 

"Hi, Mom," she says tiredly. 

 

"Is everything all right?" her mother replies carefully. 

 

She swallows back the bile crawling up her throat. 

 

"Yeah. He just had to work." 

 

"That's ok, Clarke." 

 

Tears are building hot and heavy behind her eyes. 

 

"What's wrong, honey?" 

 

There's a long silence. 

 

"Just come home, ok?" Abby sounds genuinely worried now. "It's Christmas. I want to see you. It's ok if Bellamy's not there this time. We'll have a nice weekend. I invited the Jahas since Wells will be with Raven's family. Bring Harper home if you'd like - I haven't seen her in ages." 

 

The words fill her with anxiety because now she fears the day will never come where Bellamy sits beside her at her family's holiday room table and makes her mom laugh. 

 

"That's not what I want." It's cruel to say it to her mother, but she finds she doesn't care. "Harper's going back to Canada anyway. I shouldn't have said anything to you about Mrs. Blake." 

 

She can see her mother's frown, her delicate head tilt to the side. Raven bangs at the door a third time. Clarke covers the speaker and yells, "Give me a minute!" too sharply. 

 

"Oh," Abby sighs knowingly. "I was just trying to be helpful, honey. But I know he's ... "

 

"What?" 

 

"Proud. I figured he wouldn't want the help, but still, he's done so much to make a better life for him and Octavia, I just thought--"

 

"Yeah, I know, mom. That's what I thought, too. But we were wrong, all right? And now he won't even talk to me." 

 

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. I really am. But you kind of just sprang this relationship on me out of nowhere, and I'm trying to be helpful. I didn't even know you  _liked_ him like that, Clarke. The last I heard Raven was setting you up with someone she knew, and, uh, to be honest, I thought you and Bellamy had kind of a more ... volatile relationship." 

 

"Mmm-hmmm." 

 

"Don't be upset, Clarke. I always liked Bellamy. I'm just saying this is all brand new, even though you've known him a long time. And he's probably stressed out with Octavia gone and hearing this diagnosis about his mom. He works so many hours, and now you're added into the mix. It's just..." she sighs, "Probably a lot for him to handle."

 

Clarke sinks into her bed and hides her face in her palm. 

 

"Yeah, I know. You're right. I'm sorry for snapping at you. I just ... don't want him upset at me. I know I screwed up."

 

"You didn't screw up, Clarke." 

 

"I did!" she cries out emphatically. "He didn't want anyone to know about his mom. Octavia doesn't even know yet. And now he's so angry. I just don't know how he's going to be able to keep Mrs. Blake somewhere decent if he has to pay for it himself." 

 

"It's ok, baby. I ... well, I didn't know how much you cared about him. But I guess I should have figured it would get here eventually." 

 

"What do you mean?" 

 

Abby laughs a little sadly on the other side of the line. 

 

"You were just always more ... protective ... of Bellamy than your other friends I think. I know he's special to you. You guys have been through a lot together." 

 

Clarke's back hits her blankets again, and she clenches the soft cloth with one fist. 

 

"Mom?" 

 

"Yeah?" 

 

"I love him," she admits quietly. 

 

Abby takes a deep breath, and Clarke imagines her drawing herself up to her full height. 

 

"Well ... " she says more briskly. "If that's the case, why don't you go sort this thing out between you? And once you do, you know you're both welcome over anytime this weekend." 

 

"Thanks, Mom." 

 

"Of course." 

 

Clarke hangs up the phone, and squaring her shoulders, opens her door to face a frazzled Raven. 

 

***

 

Arkadia wasn't the first place she wanted to go. But after spending several hours knocking aimlessly at Bellamy's apartment door, checking the parking lot at the car garage where he worked, driving by his school and even rapping smartly on Miller and Murphy's doors to no avail, this was the last option she could think of. 

 

The bar was somehow full of more shadows during twilight. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the light, but she soon made out Murphy's lanky profile behind the long bar counter. 

 

"Hey, Griffin!" he saluted her. "Nice girl like you shouldn't be in a dive like this when you could be home baking Christmas cookies in your mansion." 

 

She rolled her eyes and made a beeline for the spot where he was running a gray rag over the sleek, old wood. 

 

"Is he here?" she demanded quietly. 

 

"Who?" Murphy smirked. 

 

"You know who." 

 

Murphy's lips rolled unpleasantly. 

 

"Blake?" He tipped his chin up toward the corner full of pool tables. 

 

She whirled around, and there he was indeed, swaying a little as he stepped up to the table to take a shot. Miller stood off to his left, while Jasper seemed deep in conversation with a dark haired girl to his right. 

 

"Yeah, he's been hitting the sauce for a while now. Trouble in paradise, Princess?" 

 

"Perfect," she gritted, ignoring him. "I can always count on you to take something bad and make it worse, Murphy." 

 

"Hey! What do you want me to do? He's legal, and he's not trashed. He's my friend, and I'm not getting in the middle of whatever shit show it is you two have got going on."  

 

She glances back and Murphy watches her bare her teeth when a gorgeous Asian girl sidles up to him as he leans over the table, biceps rippling as he does. Her hair is long and wavy, tinged with honey blonde highlights, and her eyes are outlined in smoky kohl. 

 

"Shut up, Murphy." 

 

"Listen, I don't even know what's going on. But if you two are already screwing it up, I know I don't deserve the blame for it, Clarke." 

 

She pushes away from the bar and marches past the tables full mostly of students happy to finally be done with the semester and ready to celebrate before heading home. 

 

"Bellamy," she says tightly when she reaches him, laying a hand on his shoulder and raising her eyebrows at the girl he was talking to. "Can we talk for a sec?" 

 

He stiffens on the spot. The girl's eyes dart between them, and her lip curls. 

 

"Alone?" Clarke presses. 

 

"I've got nothing to say, Clarke," he keeps his back to her.

 

Her eyes widen, annoyed. "Can you give us a minute?" she says with only the vaguest notion of politeness to the girl who scoffs but walks away in Miller's direction.  

 

_Good luck with that_ , Clarke thinks meanly. 

 

"I said no, Clarke," Bellamy turns to face her at last, gripping his pool stick tightly. "But I guess I shouldn't be surprised that you don't listen to me. Can't think of a time you ever did." 

 

"Would you please just let me explain!" she says in a rush. "I'm sorry, and I know I screwed up, but I   _care about you_ , Bellamy. Why are you pushing me away?" 

 

"I don't want to do this with you here," he mutters, sliding a tired hand over his face. "Would you please just go?" 

 

Her mouth folds in on itself like an accordion as the realization hits her. 

 

"You don't want to do this at all, do you?" she mutters, enraged. "You were just looking for a way out!" 

 

"Keep your voice down!" His eyes scan the area around them, but everyone seems too engrossed in their conversations to pay them much mind. 

 

"I won't!" Clarke snaps. "Did you think I was just an easy fuck, is that it? And now that you've had me, you're bored and ready to move on?" 

 

Her words do catch Jasper's attention now, and he turns to shoot her a wide-eyed look. 

 

"Enough," Bellamy growls, pacing away toward the hallway leading to the back room. 

 

"It's not enough!" she practically yells as she follows him, drawing the attention of two booths worth of patrons. "You can't just  _use_ people, Bellamy! That's not how relationships work!" 

 

"Will. You. Keep. Your. Voice. Down?" he erupts dangerously, bringing a hand to her lower back and guiding her hastily into the cooler hallway which smells of stale beer and something musty. 

 

"No!" she pushes both hands into his chest and launches off the wall where he'd led her. "Because you're being ridiculous. Ok, I made a mistake. But you can't just run away, Bellamy. You can't say all that stuff to me and then shut me out!" 

 

He watches her with disbelief coloring his face. 

 

"I didn't want you to follow me here, Clarke. I want you to give me some space." 

 

Her heartbeat kicks up intensely, drowning out her hearing with its ferocious tattoo. The iron-clad walls are rising up his face, settling  and locking into place in his eyes, and it scares her. 

 

"How much space? For how long?" 

 

He swipes a hand through his hair, and she steps closer to him. 

 

"I don't know, Clarke." 

 

"Bell," she reaches for his waist when she's near enough. Though he tenses, he doesn't move away. "It's just me, nothing fancy. Just you and me. And I want you to know I believe you can take care of your family." Very carefully, she slides one hand up his chest and shoulder to sweep over his cheekbone. 

 

She makes sure his eyes find hers before she speaks again. They're very black, framed by pretty lashes. She wants to run her pointer finger down his straight nose and trace his lips with the hint of her nail. She also kind of wants to shake him. He breathes slow against her cheek, and she longs to press a hand over his heart but refrains. 

 

"It's all going to be ok, all right?" she quirks an eyebrow up at him, stepping a little closer still. "You've got me and Octavia and Lincoln and my mom if you want her. You've got Miller and Murphy and all my friends, too. We'll figure something out, Bellamy. Something that you're comfortable with. It's going to be fine." 

 

"You can't promise that." 

 

"Nobody can really promise anything, but that doesn't mean I don't know that it's true." 

 

She stares him down with such conviction that at last she feels him start to thaw. When he tracks his eyes over her face, she actually sighs in relief. 

 

"Do you really mean it?" 

 

She nods slowly, realizing maybe this was the real culprit of his outburst. Bellamy hasn't had many people to lean on and trust in his life. 

 

"'Course I do. Together, ok?" 

 

After a long few moments, his eyes soften, and she sees the sweeter look there she's beginning to recognize he reserves especially for her. She reaches up to tuck a stray curl behind his ear, and he catches her hand, kissing the palm. 

 

"Together," he agrees. "Thanks, Princess." 

 

"I'm here for you, Bellamy. Always. You have to believe me on that one." 

 

He swallows hard but nods. 

 

"Good," Clarke beams with a radiant smile and deep sigh. "Now can I ask you something?" 

 

"I really don't feel like a fancy family dinner tonight, Clarke." 

 

"No, it's not about that," she trails her fingers down his stomach suggestively. 

 

"Then what?" 

 

"Well," she closes the rest of the space between them and slides her arms around his neck. Rubbing her hips into his helps thaw some of the ice that had settled in her chest over the last few hours. "I was hoping you could take care of me, too." 

 


	25. Holidaze

 

"Christmas Eve Eve is sooo a thing!" Clarke argues back with an easy grin. "Don't be a grinch about it." 

 

Bellamy scoffs and carefully maneuvers around an icy patch before merging into the right lane. The exit for the shopping mall is coming up soon. 

 

"I've never heard of it before, which means you must have made it up." 

 

"What kind of reasoning is that?" 

 

"Reasoning that's served me well in the past where you're concerned," he jokes, and she takes a swipe at his arm. 

 

Bellamy just drums along to the music on his steering wheel unaffected except for a short, barking laugh, and Clarke leans back into the passenger seat, rolling her eyes. His old truck is becoming her home away from home, not that she minds. There's a small stack of history exams he has to finish grading on the narrow back seat, along with a few old books and his dark backpack. It's so  _academic_  that it makes her smile to herself. 

 

It's Tuesday, and since Christmas is the following Sunday, Clarke was absolutely appalled to learn Bellamy hadn't bought Octavia's gift yet, hence the trip. Although he tried to protest that he had a few weeks until she arrived home from France, that the siblings had agreed to have a late Christmas celebration together where they watched  _A Christmas Carol_  and decorated their tree and hung Octavia's delicate paper snowflakes from the windows while gingerbread men baked in the oven like always, Clarke wasn't convinced. 

 

 

~~~**~~~

 

"You need to send her something!" shed insisted the night before as they left Arkadia hand in hand on their way to an Indian restaurant a few blocks away. "What will she think if she doesn't get anything from you?!" 

 

"We're Skyping, Princess. And I already sent her a care package of all that junk food she likes with a letter in it."

 

Clarke arched an eyebrow at him, the biting wind already stinging the exposed skin on her face. 

 

"With the Toblerones and the Cosmic Brownies?" 

 

Bellamy pulled her closer into his chest and nodded against the top of her head.  

 

"Yeah, I remembered. But I'm going to start insisting on making you both kale smoothies when she gets back," Bellamy grumbled. "You two can't be trusted to get any nutrition into your systems." Clarke made a face at him, but he looked back at her earnestly. "I'll make it taste good, don't worry! Fruit's a natural sweetener." 

 

"I don't know if I believe you," she'd teased. She liked that he was concerned about her health and well-being, but it wasn't like she was going to tell him that. 

 

"And some nice spinach lasagna, and salmon with lemon and dill and sautéed vegetables, and those new overnight oats everyone's been talking about with berries for breakfast..." 

 

He honestly looked like a kid in a candy store as he listed off new recipes, eyes sparkling with possibility. 

 

"Whatever you say, Bell," she patted his stomach lightly through her gloved hand. "I think you've been spending too much time working out with Lincoln and his health nuts. Which reminds me of what I got Octavia for Christmas!" 

 

Bellamy reached around her and opened the tall, glass door to the Indian restaurant, Zakara's. It was small and painted a pretty gold, the chatter of other diners filling the place pleasantly. The air was thick with spices, and Clarke loved the murals of elephants painted along the walls. 

 

"You got her more time with Lincoln? Great," he said drily as the hostess walked them toward the back of the place to their table. 

 

"Noooo," she replied, sitting down. The booth was tight, the old leather seats beginning to show cracks. But she felt Bellamy's leg brush against hers under the table, and a thrill ran up her spine. "I got us both passes to that new kickboxing class at Grounders Gym, so there. Super health conscious." 

 

"Impressive," Bellamy squeezed her knee, but his eyes danced as they drank in her face under the artsy, stained-glass light fixture hanging over the booth. 

 

The touch made her warm and brought memories from only an hour ago up to swim in her mind. Clarke could hardly be classified as risqué before, far from it. But there was something about Bellamy's strong arms wrapping around her waist, his palm cupping her jaw when he'd kissed her in Arkadia that made her want to do things. To push the envelope. After they'd talked, she'd let him lead her by the hand into the back room, allowed him to cage her against a wall as his fingers went to work on the button of her corduroy pants before sliding into her underwear.

 

"We can't," she whispered. "Someone could come in." 

 

"But I want you," he'd told her neck, sucking a mark there. Really, how could she argue with his muscles moving against her the way they were? 

 

She'd torn her own sweater off her body, desperate for his mouth on her skin and pleased when it fell between the mounds of her bra-clad breasts while he stroked her clit with a steady pressure. 

 

"You're so perfect, Clarke. How did I get this lucky?" 

 

She kissed him with bruising force when his lips returned to hers, sliding her tongue along the seam of his lips before being granted entry, tugging him closer at the waist. When he fell to his knees and draped one of her creamy thighs over his shoulder, a mild panic fluttered in her gut. But he'd shushed her protests, warm breath fanning the tender skin between her legs as he told her she was beautiful, to lean her head back, to stop thinking so damn much. The sound of footsteps never came from the hall, thank God, and with the lights off, there was just the friendly, yellow globs floating in Murphy's lava lamp to focus on when Bellamy's tongue pushed inside her, and she latched onto his curls. By the time his thumb began applying steady pressure to her tiny nerve bundle, she was  shaking, tugging him up to kiss him again while her legs went mildly numb beneath her. 

 

He'd fixed that when he hoisted her up at the waist, not having bothered to do much more than slide his own jeans and boxers down to his knees. 

 

"This is my favorite part," Clarke groaned, low and heated, once they were at eye level. She was impressed by how easily he seemed to lift her above the ground like she was a doll, but she hadn't told him that yet, either. 

 

"What?" Bellamy's mouth quirked up before he pressed it against hers. She reached between them and glided a thumb across the head of his cock, satisfied with the grunt that escaped him on contact. 

 

"Right before you take me. You're so focused." She brushed loose fingers over the crease forming between his eyes; the other hand moved to his waist to brace herself more securely against the wall.

 

"Jesus, you're gonna kill me, Clarke," he returned before thrusting inside her, squeezing her breast through the lace of her bra for good measure and running his own thumb over her nipple until it was tight and hypersensitive. 

 

"But what a way to go," she'd purred, before she began rolling her hips into his. 

 

Their waitress stands before them, passing them each a glass of water with lemon before pulling her notebook out of a pocket. When Clarke orders a vegetarian dish with extra eggplant along with her usual Chicken 65 and fruit-and-nut naan bread, Bellamy watches her carefully. 

 

"What?" she asks casually once the waitress has gone. "A girl can change." 

 

~~~**~~~

Bellamy doesn't typically enjoy malls. He's not a fan of the recirculated air, the super sugary snacks and having to pay more than he thought items were worth. But Clarke looks positively delighted when they walk into Phoenix Valley Mall's expansive atrium to find it has been transformed into a winter wonderland complete with evergreens, a beautiful sled and Santa's Cottage at the center. Drifts of snow have been draped artfully around the home, and elves wearing green and white striped knee socks scamper around giving small toys to kids after they pose for a picture with Santa and Mrs. Claus. 

 

Clarke pokes him in the side. 

 

"See! The magic of the season! Isn't this nice?" 

 

He slings an arm around her shoulders invitingly, and she wraps her own around his waist. He likes how they fit together so easily, though he guesses it should come as no surprise after so many years of being in each other's lives. 

 

"It's nice, Clarke. You were right. Now lead the way." 

 

He nearly jumps out of his skin an hour later when Clarke practically tackles him. He was reading about the construction of the Egyptian pyramids in a comfortable corner armchair at the book shop, minding his own business as she browsed. 

 

"What?" he looks up at her, eyes a little unfocused. 

 

"Look what I found!" She's practically bouncing on the balls of her feet, thin fingers wrapped around a slightly battered copy of  _Metamorphoses._ "It's a first edition! You used to read Octavia stuff like this when you were kids, right? Do you think she'd like it?" 

 

Bellamy takes the book from her with reverent hands. 

 

"Yeah," he says slowly, turning it over and flipping through the pages. "I definitely think she will." 

 

~~***~~ 

It's like standing outside Richard and Emily Gilmore's house just before Friday night dinner - a bit of pop culture trivia he only knows thanks to Octavia's obsession with  _Gilmore Girls_. He hasn't been to the Griffin's house in years, not since around the time he started college. But the sprawling, English tutor is still as intimidating as ever. An exceptionally tall, curved oak front door looms before him. There are three, working chimneys, a small pond with its own fountain and lily pads, even a turret. Bellamy fidgets as his hands grow damp in the pockets of his pressed dress slacks. 

 

"What is it?" Clarke rocks her hip into his and balances the packages in her arms. He likes how she smells today - like cinnamon and raspberries. She must have an extensive perfume collection, but he can't remember seeing one on her bathroom counter. 

 

"Princess really was the only nickname option for you." He casts his eyes upward at the second and third stories. 

 

She frowns. "Bellamy, don't be nervous. You've known my mom for years, and she likes you. You absolutely belong here." 

 

"I'm not nervous." 

 

"Mhmmm." 

 

But there's a pause, and then -- "You sure you want to publicly tie yourself to a lowly peasant like me?" It's a joke, mostly, but she hears the uncertainty break in his voice. 

 

She puts down the gifts in her arms and pulls her phone out of her pocket, tugging him closer by his leather jacket and wrapping an arm around his waist. 

 

"Smile like you actually like me," she commands. 

 

That gets a grin out of him. She presses up on her tiptoes to kiss his tan cheek right as she snaps the photo. A minute later, she gives the screen a final tap and tells him to check his Instagram account. 

 

There was one notification from @SkyGirlClarke attached to the photo she'd just taken: The best Christmas present is being his Princess. @RebelBlake #lovehim #sothankful #guessthatmakeshimmyprince #handsoffladies 

 

The picture is immediately liked by @JaspersOtherSide, @MurphyIsTheHero and @GuardGirlHarper as he stands staring at it. 

 

"I'm very sure," She bats a stray curl off his forehead. "Are you?" 

 

Bellamy takes her hand before leaning down and kissing her gently. "Love you, Princess." 

 

"That's more like it," she smiles against his freckles when he nuzzles her neck with his nose before reaching around him to press the doorbell. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got story suggestions for you!! Vast majority are fluffy, modern AUs to help calm your anxiety before 509 and get yourself into a zen state of happiness!! I'm emotionally compromised after that episode, so these should all be mostly feel good. 
> 
> I'm Swept Away and My Heart Ensnared (summer beach bellarke!)   
> Flowers fade, but the internet lasts forever (TWITTER LOVE)   
> I just need some company (the proposition modern au you've been waiting for)   
> take this sinking boat and point it home (it's platonic. no, really).   
> a helping hand (bellamy needs a practice girlfriend. guess who volunteers)  
> into tinder, and so hinder (clarke's dating. bellamy's jealous.)   
> mirror mirror on the wall (awwww soul mates)   
> when the music fades (in s5 canon but bellarke doesn't hate each other! dancing! cute madi!)   
> wrong number (fun texting featuring overprotective raven)   
> tell me how to feel okay (if this isn't the bellarke apology you're looking for post 509, i don't know what to tell you)   
> begging me to beg for you (s1 bunker bellarke instead of flarke)   
> explain the infinite (the s1 bellarke soul mates au that made me die a little)   
> Sweet Lips on My Lips (if canon was easier - how they'd get together)


	26. More Than You Could Ever Know

Abby opens the door wearing a cranberry colored dress, delicate pearl earrings, a fashionable up twist and a flourish of perfume. 

 

"Hi, sweetheart!" She moves to set the bags Clarke holds down on an expensive looking golden side table before wrapping her daughter into her arms. "I'm so happy you're here!" 

 

Bellamy stands to the side of them in the spacious foyer a little awkwardly, pulling a gift box out from his jacket pocket. 

 

"Bellamy! It's nice to see you again, Merry Christmas," Abby smiles kindly at him, pulling away from Clarke. 

 

He's more than surprised when she steps forward and gives him a quick hug, whispering, "I'm glad you could come" into his ear before drawing back.

 

"Thank you for having me. It's nice to see you, too," he manages. 

 

Clarke opens her eyes wide at him from over her mother's shoulder, gesturing at the box. They're Godiva chocolates - which he's been informed are Abby's favorites. 

 

"I brought you something as a thank you for having me." He hands her the box. 

 

"Oh, that wasn't necessary! But it's very sweet of you." 

 

Her dainty heels click across the hardwood floors as she gestures them into the living room where a fire crackles merrily in the hearth and a Christmas tree that must be 10 feet tall fills the space with dozens of shining ornaments and curving lines of white light. The tree appears to be professionally designed, and Clarke figures it probably was. Long gone are the days that she and her father wrapped the tree with strings of popcorn and hand painted baubles for the highest branches, more paint ending up on Clarke's face and fingers than on the ornaments. 

 

"Have a seat!" Abby says, taking a moment to note her daughter's hand sliding into Bellamy's. "The Jahas should be here in a little while. Can I get you something to drink?" 

 

"Uhhh..." Bellamy begins uncertainly, eyes traveling to Clarke's, a nonverbal question there.  

 

"Do you have any wine, mom?" 

 

Bellamy's nose crinkles for only a moment before he composes his face, but Abby catches it nonetheless. 

 

"Bellamy, you don't have to have what Clarke has. I have a full bar for all the nonprofit events I host here. So pick your poison - beer, vodka, gin, whisky, soda, tea, coffee, water, hot chocolate, Arnold Palmer?" She wiggles her eyebrows, and he's surprised that she remembers his childhood favorite. 

 

"A beer would be great, Dr. Griffin, thanks." Clarke recognizes the smile he gives her mother; it's the same one he used countless times over the years to charm the adults around him. 

 

"You got it!" Abby calls over her shoulder. "I'll bring you the new pinot noir I just bought, Clarke." 

 

The moment her mother's dress swirls around the corner, Clarke rounds on him. Bellamy's dark eyes are tracking over the large portrait of her with her parents that's hung near the curving staircase. She remembers the incredibly long afternoon she had to sit for it. Her dad bribed her with a trip to the zoo to keep her still. The house feels quieter than she remembers, all mahogany paneling and ramrod straight navy blue curtains. 

 

"Bellamy?" She squeezes his hand in her own. "You ok?" 

 

"Huh?" He clears his throat. It takes him a minute to find her gaze again. "Yeah, fine. Just ... uh... brings back memories, being here." 

 

"You remember that night you helped me sneak out for the One Direction concert?" She grins at him. 

 

He bites his lip briefly, runs a hand through his hair, then finally sinks back into the plush pillows with a sigh. 

 

"I was already driving Octavia, and it wasn't like I was going to let you climb out a third story window yourself and break your neck," he argues, tone mild. 

 

"Yeah, sure, it was all about my safety. We'll stick with that." She leans into his chest, grinning, and he wraps an arm around her waist. 

 

"Don't push it, Princess." 

 

Abby slides into view just in time to watch Bellamy drop a kiss to the top of her daughter's head. It makes her chest tighten for a moment, and she blinks back a few tears. It's what Jake would have wanted, she thinks. Clarke with somebody solid and dependable. Somebody who knows all the sides of her complex personality and accepts them all. 

 

~~***~~

 

"Soooo," Abby throws her daughter a sidelong look while she rinses out their drink glasses and slides them into the dishwasher. Bellamy's just run to the bathroom, and she knows this may be their only five minutes alone the whole night. 

 

"Be nice, mom." 

 

"I was going to be!" Abby throws a hand to her chest in mock indignation. "Clarke, honey, he looks at you like ... well, like--" 

 

"What?" Clarke finally demands, heart beating faster at the unending silence. Snow is starting to fall softly outside the wide kitchen window overlooking the back garden, and the sky is darkening rapidly. 

 

"Like you're the sun. Like he'd throw himself in front of a bullet for you. That's all a mother could really want for her daughter. to find that kind of love."  

 

"I'd do the same for him," Clarke says softly. "It's just .... since I was eight, Bellamy was always there. He's the person I ran to when dad's plane crashed. He can handle me during my panic attacks. He listens to me. He just ... I don't know ... we understand each other." 

 

Abby pushes a stray lock of Clarke's blonde hair behind her ear. 

 

"That's special, baby," she whispers. "I know he's a good guy. He has a good heart." 

 

"The best," Clarke agrees, jumping back when the doorbell rings. 

 

~~~**~~~

 

In the end, Clarke didn't have to worry about her mother and Bellamy not getting along. But what she didn't quite bargain for was the unplanned dinner guest. He ambles into her childhood home quietly behind Thelonius and Rosemary Jaha, brushing flecks of snow off his nearly shoulder length dark hair. 

 

"Hello, Marcus," Abby's surprised-yet-still-polite smile appears as she gazes at Jaha expectantly, a look perfected from years in the professional world. 

 

"Sorry to spring him on you like this, Abby," Jaha claps the man on the shoulder. "But he's recently divorced and didn't have firm dinner plans when I ran into him downtown yesterday, and I thought ... well, spirit of the season and all that." 

 

"I see," Abby blinks for a moment. 

 

Marcus smiles sheepishly, a dusky rose climbing into the exposed skin above his beard as Clarke's eyes flit between them. He quickly passes Abby what appears to be a homemade pie.

 

"Impressive," she says, staring down at the fruit crumble. 

 

"It's one of my mother's recipes," he smiles just for her. "I'm so sorry for barging in like this, but Thelonius insisted, and you know how he can be." 

 

"Oh, yes," Abby smirks. "I know how he can be. Don't worry about it - you're welcome to join." 

 

"Well!" Jaha claps his hands together happily, "Introductions!" 

 

"Marcus Kane, this is Abby's daughter, Clarke. She's a pre-med senior at American and this is," his eyes fall on the young man standing beside her. "Bellamy Blake?" 

 

"My boyfriend," Clarke smiles up at Bellamy before shaking Kane's outstretched hand. She lets go fairly quickly and is immediately swept up into a hug from Jaha and then Rosemary. 

 

"It's been a long time since I saw you, young man," Jaha's eyes rake over Bellamy shrewdly. "I assume you've grown out of the habit of convincing my son to deface public property?" 

 

Clarke rolls her eyes. Beside her, Bellamy's hand flies up to straighten the color of his black button down. 

 

"It was a rundown old bridge they were going to tear down anyway, Mr. Jaha. We were just making it prettier before they did," she grins at him. She feels Bellamy's fingers latch around the belt loop of her pants and takes comfort the heat of his palm soaking into her side. "A little spray paint never hurt anyone." 

 

She can still hear Bellamy's deep voice ringing in her ears on that sunny summer day years ago when he'd handed her the can of neon green spray paint. They stood slightly apart from the rest of the group in the shade underneath the bridge while the lake water lapped at the shoreline of pebbled rock. " _Ready to be a badass, Clarke?"_

 

"Uh-huh, you'll understand why I, as a judge over a juvenile delinquent court didn't see it that way at the time?" Jaha asks wryly, but he extends his hand to Bellamy to shake all the same. 

 

"It was a stupid thing to do, sir. But fortunately Wells turned out to be an upstanding citizen with absolutely no help from me." 

 

Jaha's mouth curves upward a bit at that. 

 

"What are you up to these days, Mr. Blake?" 

 

"I'm a high school history teacher, sir. I got my master's in classics from American in the spring." 

 

"That's wonderful, Bellamy!" Rosemary leans in to bestow a kiss on each of his cheeks. She winks at Clarke before pulling fully away. " _So handsome_ ," Clarke catches her mouthing over Bellamy's shoulder and has to suppress a laugh. 

 

"Good, good," Jaha nods approvingly. "Marcus here is a criminal lawyer friend of mine who practices in D.C. He's particularly famous for--"

 

"The Diana Sydney murder trial. That one was really impressive!" Bellamy jumps in excitedly. "It was unbelievable how you laid out all the evidence against her." 

 

It seems to break the ice because after that, the group migrates slowly to the living room for cocktails and hors d'oeuvres before settling in around the table to dig into the feast Abby's chef prepared them. The dinner runs smoothly, and conversation flows with an effortlessness Clarke wouldn't have expected. The adults ask her about her classes next semester, and Bellamy humors them with an anecdote or two centered around the angsty teenagers he works with, including a girl named Charlotte whom he had to convince to "slay her demons" when she kept waking up from nightmares about the SATs. She should have known it was all too good to last. 

 

"How's your sister doing in France, Bellamy?" Abby asks as they're cutting into Kane's Spiced Cherry Pie. 

 

"She's doing really well, thanks," Bellamy smiles genuinely, and Clarke squeezes his knee under the table. "She loves all the art history there. I don't think she's going to want to come home next month." 

 

"Marcus is a big traveler," Jaha chimes in unexpectedly. "A true lover of other cultures. But you know what they say about traveling alone--"

 

Clarke's fairly certain the heel of Rosemary's pointed shoe collides with her calf after it swings back from hitting her husband's calf if his wince is any indication. 

 

"That was a big undertaking on your part," Abby says more loudly, nodding in Bellamy's direction across the table. "Financing her education and a study abroad semester on top of it. Commendable." 

 

"Mom," Clarke shoots her mother a death glare as her stomach tightens. But Abby bats the look away with a mild wave of her hand. "Bellamy's a hardworking young man. You still work part-time down at that bar and in the garage, don't you?" 

 

Bellamy's turning to stone beside her. Clarke notices the intensity with which he's gripping his fork. But there's no stopping Abby once she gets on a roll. 

 

"Yes, ma'am." 

 

"Well, I'm sure a scholar such as yourself can't be that entertained taking drink orders, am I right?" Jaha half laughs, sharing a glance with Abby. "Marcus, maybe there's someone you know who could offer the boy something more closely related to his interests?" 

 

"Uhhhh," Marcus scratches at his beard thoughtfully for a few moments. 

 

Bellamy's eyes widen. 

 

"Oh, no! Please. I'm good. My gigs keep me busy, really," he rushes out. 

 

"Yes, honey. Let the boy enjoy his pie, hmm?" Rosemary chides her husband. "I'm sure he doesn't want to think about work on his holiday." 

 

Kane taps his fork against the delicate green-and-white china, so a clinking noise can be heard. 

 

"You know what? You said you studied Classics before, right?" he asks Bellamy. 

 

"Yes, sir." 

 

"I do have a buddy, Charles Pike, he's a professor at Arkadia University. He takes a group out for an archeological dig somewhere new in the ancient world each summer. It's hard work in the hot sun, but the pay's good. And with your credentials," he shrugs. "It could be a good fit if you were interested." 

 

"That would be wonderful!" Abby offers Kane her first truly radiant smile of the evening. "Think about it, Bellamy, won't you?" 

 

He nods, running a tan hand roughly through his curls, a nervous habit. 

 

"I will, thank you." 

 

There's the dull throb of anger leaking into Clarke's bones as she forces herself to swallow her last bite of pie. She knew that smug arrogance on Jaha's face for what it was. Her mother had told him Bellamy's situation, and it  _infuriated_ her. She'd told her mother that in confidence, not for her to go blabbing Bellamy's family secrets to all her friends. She barely hears the rest of the dinner table conversation after that.   

 

The moment her mother clears the plates, Clarke jumps up, dragging Bellamy with her by the hand. She offers quick goodbyes to everyone then makes a beeline for the door, struggling into her coat as she moves down the long hallway full of framed family photos she can barely bear to glance at. 

 

"Clarke! We haven't even opened gifts yet!" Abby yells from somewhere behind her. But she doesn't stop to answer. She hears Bellamy murmuring some sort of apology before she bursts through the front door and out into the icy air, embracing its slap to her cheeks, relishing the pain.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. Believe me. I know. Bellarke is broken in the story. Actors say rude things at cons. JR's interview was disappointing. I know. And I'm sorry. 
> 
> So here, have some story suggestions: 
> 
> I'm Swept Away and My Heart Ensnared (summer beach bellarke!)  
> Flowers fade, but the internet lasts forever (TWITTER LOVE)  
> I just need some company (the proposition modern au you've been waiting for)  
> take this sinking boat and point it home (it's platonic. no, really).  
> a helping hand (bellamy needs a practice girlfriend. guess who volunteers)  
> into tinder, and so hinder (clarke's dating. bellamy's jealous.)  
> mirror mirror on the wall (awwww soul mates)  
> when the music fades (in s5 canon but bellarke doesn't hate each other! dancing! cute madi!)  
> wrong number (fun texting featuring overprotective raven)  
> tell me how to feel okay (if this isn't the bellarke apology you're looking for post 509, i don't know what to tell you)  
> begging me to beg for you (s1 bunker bellarke instead of flarke)  
> explain the infinite (the s1 bellarke soul mates au that made me die a little)  
> Sweet Lips on My Lips (if canon was easier - how they'd get together)  
> Love Doesn't Discriminate (It Takes and Takes and Takes) THE SOULMATE AU YOU NEVER KNEW YOU NEEDED SO BADLY. RUN DON'T WALK.  
> To the Victor Belongs the Spoils (Bellarke obsessed with Mario Kart. And each other.)  
> After All (Modern AU. Meet. Fall in Love. Fall Apart. Fall Together).


	27. Together Means Bellarke

It's a quiet car ride back toward the city. Clarke spends most of it staring out the window as the lights of strip malls fly past, fuming.

 

"Clarke, it's not that big of a deal, really. Don't worry about it." Bellamy says it when he shuts the door and revs the engine, but it doesn't seem to sink in.

 

"I'm really sorry about my mom," she whispers at last about fifteen minutes into the trip home.

 

"It's all right," Bellamy turns his head to give her a long look, a smile playing around his mouth. "She was just being who she is. And she had good intentions."

 

“Still," Clarke sighs, bawling up her hands into fists in her lap. "She had no right to say anything to Wells' dad!"

 

"You know..." Bellamy drops a delicate hand to her thigh, and she tries not to shiver at the feel of it against her thin panty hose. "It's not the worst thing in the world. The job sounded kind of cool."

 

Clarke narrows her eyes at him and dips her head down in surprise.

 

"Really?"

 

He shrugs, fiddling with the radio until he lands on the Christmas music station.

 

"Maybe, I mean. I'm open to it I guess."

 

"You're full of surprises, Bellamy."

 

She links her fingers through his and leaves them pressed against her leg, shuddering pleasantly every time his thumb dips down a little too far inward.

 

The peaceful sounds of Carol of the Bells calm her significantly as they drive on.

 

"Do you want to go to Murphy and Miller's for a while?" Bellamy asks as they approach the outskirts of D.C.

 

"Uhh, sure?" Clarke questions.

 

"They invited us over tonight. I got the text earlier. Monty and Jasper are still in town, so it's just kind of like a low-key friends thing."

 

"Yeah," Clarke smiles, staring out at the curving road. "That sounds good."

 

~~***~~

 

The boys all cat call when they stroll through the front door holding hands, but Clarke gives them the finger and Bellamy shouts out that he needs some beer to catch up to them.

 

It's fun. Monty and Jasper make spiked eggnog, and there's a tree made of golden and silver tinsel branches looming in the corner. A Christmas Story plays in the background and Murphy pulls out Cards Against Humanity, which basically devolves into Miller throwing sexual innuendoes at Bellamy at every opportunity. It gets so bad that Bellamy finally reaches down where Clarke's leaning against his legs, hauling her yelping form up and into his lap. He bands an arm around her waist and kisses the side of her neck dramatically until she stops her feeble protests and twists her torso, so she can kiss him properly. Jasper cheers, while Murphy chooses to flick chocolate-covered pretzels at them because, well, why not?

 

Clarke grins against Bellamy's mouth, and suddenly, it's too hard to keep their lips moving against each other's. She smacks a kiss to his cheek instead and slides into the couch cushion beside him, arching her legs in a triangle across his lap while he massages her calf. He's too busy making eyes at her to notice it's his turn until Jasper reaches over and slaps him on the back of his head.

 

"You two... really are something else," Miller says in his matter-of-fact way as he sips from his eggnog and leans back into a relaxed pose in his favorite stuffed armchair.

 

"I honestly can't believe you're willing to put up with his bullshit, Clarke," Murphy calls out from his perch on the floor.

 

"Awww," she hums low in her throat. "He's not that bad once you get past the rough edges." She crinkles her nose and smudges her thumb over Bellamy's cheek, trying to work off the lipstick stain she left there.

 

"Thanks, babe."

 

She winks at him dramatically.

 

Monty mimes gagging when Jasper drunkenly thrusts his glass in the air, crying out, "A toast to Bellarke! For finally getting their shit together!"

 

Miller throws him an incredulous sidelong glance.

 

"You gave them a couple nickname? Dude, seriously?"

 

Jasper earnestly nods back, and Clarke buries her face in Bellamy's neck to keep from laughing out loud. His hand tightens around her waist. She can tell by the way it vibrates lightly that he's trying to keep it together, too.

 

"Sure! They're adorable, have you seen them? They deserve one!" Jasper pushes his brown hair out of his eyes.

 

Murphy groans and tosses his card of choice into the pile before Bellamy finally speaks up.

 

"Uh, we appreciate it, Jasper, we really do, but..." He glances at Clarke, and she nods back.

 

“Let's keep that one just between us, ok?"

 

Jasper pouts but agrees.

 

The text comes in about twenty minutes later, lighting up Clarke's phone and sending it buzzing across the table.

 

"Ohh, maybe it's Mama Griffin," Miller teases, having already heard a tipsy Clarke rehash the whole dinner story.

 

"Maybe she wants to apologize?" Monty supplies.

 

"Unlikely," Clarke mutters under her breath and flips the phone over before returning to running her fingers through Bellamy's curls.

 

They gave up on the game and are trying to dissect how the idea of Santa Claus caught on when her phone buzzes again.

 

Bellamy noses at Clarke's chin, a feeling of general peace flooding through his system now that there's nobody to impress and he can hang out with his friends and watch Clarke be drunk cute.

 

“Maybe you should get it, Princess. Could be important."

 

Clarke's face is puzzled when she stares down at the screen.

 

"Well?" Murphy interrupts her reverie. "Who is it?'

 

"None of your business," Jasper shoots back, which earns him a shoulder shove.

 

Clarke's blue eyes widen as she meets Bellamy's dark ones.

 

"It's, just, uh... Raven's friend. Finn."

 

"What does he want?"

 

Bellamy's tone changes subtly, but she still hears it.

 

"He just wanted to wish me a merry Christmas," She puts the phone back into her purse on the floor.

 

"Uh-huh. Anything else?" The glint in his eye makes her stomach squirm.

 

"Bell, we can talk about it later," she says pointedly, curling her feet back away from his body and standing up. "It's getting late. We should probably head out anyway."

 

"Aaaannnnd, they're back," Murphy murmurs, but it's loud enough to hear, “Inside the ring.”

 

"Don't be a dick," Miller hisses across the room.

Subtlety and alcohol do not mix in this house.

 

Bellamy stands too as Clarke slips back into her heels, wobbling slightly. He grips her elbow to steady her, but his hand is gone as soon as she regains her footing. He pulls his jacket from the hall closet and hands Clarke hers. She tries to meet his eye, but he's already saying goodbye to the guys.

 

"Are you good to drive?" Clarke looks up at him as they walk across the lawn to his truck parked just beyond the mailbox.

 

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'll drop you off at your place, ok?"

 

The air stings her legs, so she hurries toward the passenger side door without answering and yanks it open, her panty hose ripping a bit as she hurls herself inside.

 

"Shit," she mutters, rubbing her hands together and waiting for Bellamy to start the heat.

 

The silence is awkward, but she’s known far worse.

 

”I forgot about him,” Bellamy admits.

 

"I just didn't want to talk about it in front of them, that's all," Clarke says calmly, reaching over to rub his thigh. "He was asking if I could get coffee when the semester started, but I'm obviously going to tell him I'm with you."

 

"All right." She watches Bellamy's jaw tick and his grip on the steering wheel tighten.

 

"Oh, come on! What can you possibly be mad about? I met him a few weeks ago for a date. It's not that weird that he wanted to go out again."

 

"You're right," Bellamy admits a few moments later.

 

"So what's with the face?" Clarke pokes his bicep. "I didn't even like Finn that much that night. I was too busy watching everything you were doing."

 

This wins her a small smile.

 

"I just ... wish it hadn't happened in front of the guys. They’ll be giving me shit about buying Spacewalker hair products for weeks.”

 

Clarke clicks her tongue teasingly.

 

“You’ve got that natural curl—you don’t need them.”

 

“Clarke.”

 

"No, I understand. You've got to protect that bad boy Blake reputation."

 

He scoffs at her teasing, but she rolls her eyes and laughs.

 

"You wouldn't understand."

 

"I think I've got a pretty good idea," Clarke leans in to make sure he can glance down the front of her flowing blouse when he looks at her. "If you want me to tell the guys how many times you can get me off in one go, then--"

 

"Clarke," he says loudly, and she ruffles his hair, fond.

 

"They know you've got game, Blake. Otherwise, how could you end up with someone as attractive as me?"

 

It's his turn to laugh as she taps out a happy holidays text to Finn.

 

Clarke shows Bellamy the text when they arrive back at his place (the whole blouse thing worked) after he brushes his teeth. "See?" she hands him the phone before applying lotion to her face in front of the bathroom mirror.

 

Hi Finn. Merry Christmas to you too! Thanks for the invite, but I started seeing somebody since we hung out, and it's serious, so I won't be able to go. Sorry!

 

"Serious, huh?" Bellamy's fingertips trace the length of her spine, and she shivers in the thin sleep shirt.

 

"Yes, you ass!" She slaps his chest playfully, but he catches her hand and pulls her into his body. "Was that the wrong word?"

 

"No," he mutters, sucking a bruise into the side of her neck as she tries not to moan. "It's the word I would've used."

 

Finn sends back one text to question how anything could be serious that started in the last few weeks, and that's when Clarke realizes he's kind of an asshole. But she answers him with a short but polite message that she was friends with the guy for years first and that he makes her very happy and she couldn't see herself with anybody else to stop the conversation. She shows Bellamy this message too - he never asked to see it, but she wants to be totally honest with him after the incident with her mother.

 

He reads the message laying on his back in bed with her on her side, watching him. When he's done, he drops the phone on the bedside table and climbs on top of her, caging her in with his elbows and legs.

 

 

"I love you," she whispers to him, thumb tracing a line between the freckles beneath his right eye just before he slides her sleep shorts and panties down her legs in one motion. He's heavy and heated above her when his tongue enters her mouth, and his thumb flicks at her nipple through her shirt. She helps him slide his red boxers off as they kiss fiercely, her rocking into his length whenever he gives her the opportunity.

 

He peels her shirt up off her stomach and kisses the ivory skin there, making her giggle a little bit. But when his finger coasts down into her folds and teases at her clit, the laughter melts into moans. There isn't a lot of foreplay, and she knows this is different. Bellamy is different. When her shirt's off, he sucks each of her nipples into his mouth hungrily before biting at her breasts until she's clawing at his back and begging for him to give her thrumming pussy relief. Every lick of his scratchy tongue around her nipples sends a bolt of electricity straight between her legs.

 

When the purple head of his cock nudges at her folds, her spine twitches off the bed, but Bellamy holds her down and thrusts straight inside, smirking when she gasps. He keeps up the dirty talk as he fucks steadily into her, and all she can do is grip his shoulders and hold on for the ride of his cock pounding into her tight heat. It's like he's marking her hips, her ass, her breasts with his clutching hands. She's delirious for the way he slides over her g-spot, for the sound of his grunting and his words, his words.

 

_"Clarke, you're so wet."_

_"You like my cock pushing deep into you, don't you?"_   
  
_"Babe. I love watching your tits shake when I fuck you."_   
  
_"You're incredible. Hot and tight."_

_"Dirty Princess."_   
  
_"Beautiful."_   
  
_"I love you so much."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just keeping a running list of recommendations here and adding to what I already had:
> 
> I'm Swept Away and My Heart Ensnared (summer beach bellarke!)  
> Flowers fade, but the internet lasts forever (TWITTER LOVE)  
> I just need some company (the proposition modern au you've been waiting for)  
> take this sinking boat and point it home (it's platonic. no, really).  
> a helping hand (bellamy needs a practice girlfriend. guess who volunteers)  
> into tinder, and so hinder (clarke's dating. bellamy's jealous.)  
> mirror mirror on the wall (awwww soul mates)  
> when the music fades (in s5 canon but bellarke doesn't hate each other! dancing! cute madi!)  
> wrong number (fun texting featuring overprotective raven)  
> tell me how to feel okay (if this isn't the bellarke apology you're looking for post 509, i don't know what to tell you)  
> begging me to beg for you (s1 bunker bellarke instead of flarke)  
> explain the infinite (the s1 bellarke soul mates au that made me die a little)  
> Sweet Lips on My Lips (if canon was easier - how they'd get together)  
> Love Doesn't Discriminate (It Takes and Takes and Takes) THE SOULMATE AU YOU NEVER KNEW YOU NEEDED. RUN DON'T WALK.  
> To the Victor Belongs the Spoils (Bellarke obsessed with Mario Kart. And each other.)  
> After All - all that modern "we met in a bar fwb until it wasn't" angst you deserve  
> Mismatched - Do you like Are You the One? Then you'll love this!  
> Lights Down Low - unity day bellarke  
> and our souls, they blend - when you just wanted rover sex  
> wherever you're going, i'm not far behind (Modern AU. FWB until Finn comes along. You'll love it.)


	28. And a Happy New Year

When Bellamy's eyes crack open the next morning, the first thing he's keenly aware of is the warm weight of Clarke spread across his chest. Her hair spills out in tangled, golden threads in every direction, the ends of it tickling his arm. He shifts gently, trying not to wake her. 

 

"Few more minutes," she mumbles, pressing a dry kiss to the spot next to his heart. 

 

He smiles openly at the gesture, smoothing a hand up and down her spine. 

 

"Merry Christmas Eve," he murmurs. 

 

"Don't wanna go back to my mom's," is what he hears in response. 

 

Bellamy reaches out and tucks the covers up over their bodies, groaning a little as his head readjusts on the pillow. 

 

"We don't have to go back." 

 

"We don't?" Clarke lifts her chin from his sternum and blinks blearily at him. 

 

"Nah." He crinkles his nose and swoops a finger down her cheek. "We can have our own Christmas here." 

 

"But we haven't done anything!" Clarke sits up swiftly, giving him an excellent view of her rosy nipples before she hastily wraps a sheet around herself and bats away the hand that was reaching out to touch her. 

 

"You can't control yourself for two seconds, can you?" she teases. 

 

"Hey, you're the one that fell asleep pressing yourself against me," Bellamy argues back. "Not my fault my body responded." 

 

"Poor baby," Clarke rolls her eyes. "Now on to more important things... Christmas!" 

 

She looks like an excited six-year-old as she begins listing off all the stuff they have to do in one day, and he falls a little bit more in love with her before she's finished. 

 

~~~**~~~

 

They're lucky to find a Christmas tree tent set up a few miles from Bellamy's place. They argue - what else is new? - about which will make the perfect addition to his living room.  _That one's ridiculous, Clarke! It's almost ten-feet tall! But that one's too fat! It can't be that wide - I won't be able to help you carry it through the door!_ When they finally select one, Clarke throws herself into baking gingerbread cookies in his small kitchen with gusto as he digs through old cardboard boxes in the hall closet in search of the ornaments he knows Octavia stashed way in the back last year. At some point, she must tune the small radio he leaves in the kitchen for emergencies to the Christmas station because the strains of "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" greet him before long. He gives up the search, deciding to start with the lights. 

 

Clarke gets tangled in the twinkling white lights - he's adamant it's on purpose - when she helps him string them up. He's in the middle of telling her that she has to move her arm up and to the left or he can't get her untangled, when she giggles suddenly, pointing upward. 

 

"What?" Bellamy blinks gruffly, searching around as if looking for an invading bee. 

 

"Mistletoe," Clarke sings out, beaming up at the festive decor right above their heads. 

 

"You're something else," Bellamy smiles back at her, the irritation forgotten entirely as a warmth rises in his cheekbones. "Where'd you get it?" 

 

"The tree place had some for sale by the wreaths," she wriggles her eyebrows suggestively. 

 

Then she's kissing him hard and sure, grinding her hips into his for friction while he moans into her mouth, cupping her jaw to control the angle of their embrace. When Bellamy snakes a hand through the tangle of pointy lights wrapped around her torso to rub a thumb against the pad of her bra, she just grips his hair more firmly. It's the beeping oven that pulls her back to reality. 

 

"My cookies!" She pulls away from him, pupils blown and lip gloss smeared, hurrying away to save her sugary creations, even as the string of lights trails on the carpet behind her. They sit side by side at the small kitchen table icing their little brown people -  _I do NOT have that many freckles, Clarke. Well, do you see a tiara on my head?_ before Bellamy resigns himself to looking for the ornaments once more. It's been quiet a while, Clarke flipping through both his Netflix and Hulu options in search of a holiday movie, when she goes in search of him. She finds him crouched on the floor by Octavia's bed, hand deep inside a plain cardboard box, gazing down as if lost in a trance. 

 

"Bellamy?" She calls quietly to him. He doesn't move. 

 

"Bellamy? What is it?" Clarke walks carefully to him, sitting down too and placing a hand on his forearm. 

 

His brow's crinkled, and he's holding a faded snowman ornament, the paint peeling back in places. A green tree is on the left, wedged next to a big snowman and a smaller one. It says "Daddy & Me - 1996" with the name Bellamy etched over the smaller snowman and Dad above the larger one. 

 

"I didn't know this one still existed," he whispers more to himself than to her. "Haven't seen it in years." 

 

Clarke's frozen for a moment, a wave of pain mingled with apprehension coursing through her. She wraps an arm around his waist and rests her head on his shoulder. 

 

"Your dad loved you," she murmurs into his neck, familiar with the old story Octavia shared bits and pieces of through the years. 

 

Aurora was married to Bellamy's father. In their old house, There was one picture of them beaming over a five-tiered chocolate-frosted wedding cake while feeding each other slices. By all accounts, he was the life of the party, a delight to be around. The Blakes tied the knot right after graduating college and lived together in a tiny ranch house where Aurora hung yellow curtains in the kitchen window and watched him mow the lawn through the glass. In the summer, she'd lay a blanket out in the backyard and snack on crackers and cheese while toddler Bellamy ran through a sprinkler and his dad told her stories about the constellations. Everyone loved him, and there was nothing he wouldn't do for the people he cared about. Octavia knew that he was Filipino with the same, dark unruly hair as her brother and a laugh that infected everyone around him. He loved putting spices in all their meals and was a die-hard Nationals fan. But his work as a firefighter was always risky, and one day he climbed inside a burning building he couldn't escape from to save a six-year-old boy and his puppy despite his chief's warnings that it was too dangerous. His last words up the ladder were, "What if it were my boy? I'd want someone to go." 

 

His death crushed Aurora, and she began to drink heavily afterward. She stayed in bars into the early morning hours at times, where she found Octavia's father, whose name she couldn't remember the next day. 

 

"Yeah," Bellamy murmurs, a tear slipping down his cheek.

 

She squeezes him tighter, breathing in that old familiar citrus that often cloaks him. 

 

"Do you want to hang it up on the tree?" 

 

"Yeah," he says quietly after a while. "That'd be nice." 

 

He's still staring down at it a minute later, and she decides to give him a little time to be with his thoughts. She's almost to the doorway when his voice stops her. Clarke turns to face him only to find his dark eyes intently watching her face. 

 

"I hope ... I hope one day I can show it to my kid."

 

His words hit her straight in the chest like a bullet. A ripple shoots up her spine but she's not sure what it means, only that the ground seems to be shifting, sliding, pulling her back to him. Because this isn't a hypothetical future with any dark-haired child. She knows in her bones from the heat in his eyes she'd be the mother. It's silent while he waits for her to breathe. 

 

Clarke clears her throat and steps back into the room. 

 

"I think one day you'll do that." She cups his chin briefly in her palm. 

 

"Clarke--"

 

"I know," she widens her eyes at him, trying to soothe and convey her understanding with one gesture. "That would be nice. One day. Like, in the future," she smirks a little. "We'll keep talking about it." 

 

She's packing up the leftover gingerbread men in a Tupperware container to store when she hears his footsteps behind her, and his hands landing heavily on her hips. He kisses up her neck and presses himself into her ass, driving her a bit wild and sparking her core to life swiftly. When she reaches back a hand to tangle in his hair, he takes the opportunity to cup her breasts in both hands, pinching at the nipples with a small extra bite. Carefully, she grinds her fleshy ass into his cock, feeling him harden in satisfaction and dropping a hand into her leggings. 

 

"Don't," Bellamy growls in her ear, bringing goosebumps to the surface of her skin. "I want to touch you." 

 

His fingers are calloused and tough, slipping over the moisture of her folds and stroking her bundle of nerves until she's arching beneath him, the heat building through all their layers. He thrusts two fingers inside her several times before fully yanking her leggings and underwear to her knees. Bellamy moves fast - the zing of his zipper sliding down filling her body with bubbling excitement. Then there's just her elbows bracing on the counter, her legs spread as far as they'll go with her ankles locked in fabric and his firm, insistent thrusts that hit her too deep and leave her panting. When he comes inside her, for the first time she sees petal-soft baby cheeks and pudgy fists flash before her mind's eye. It makes her smile, but she bites her lip and gives in to the blissful sensations of her channel hugging him close. 

 

The next day, she presents him with a Smithsonian membership package and scrapbooking supplies he can bring to his mom and work on with her. 

 

Bellamy looks up from the seas of reindeer wrapping paper around him, confusion streaked across his features. 

 

"It's to help her with her memory, to focus on the good things. You can put pictures in there, and she can decorate around it with the stickers and fancy papers and stuff." 

 

"Thanks, Clarke," he beams at her, dropping a comfortable hand to her knee. "She'll love it." 

 

He gives her a pretty, golden bracelet with an embedded, jeweled crown right in the center.

 

"Bellamy!" She gasps when she takes it out of its tiny black box from the signature jeweler in D.C. "It's beautiful! But ... it's too much." Her brow crinkles. "I don't want you spending this kind of money on--"

 

"You're my Princess, and I'll spend what I want on you." He winks at her, offering a half smile that she reaches up to kiss off his face. 

 

There's also a red-and-white striped, cloth nightie that hits at the top of her thighs and has tiny peppermint buttons ending right above her navel. At least there are elbow-length sleeves to keep her warm. 

 

"For easier access," he grins at her when she raises a wry eyebrow at him. 

 

Later that night, Clarke curls into his side, tracing circles across his abs. 

 

"You know if you take that job Kane is offering, you'd be gone all summer," she whispers. 

 

"That's true," he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "But you could come visit me. I'd want you to come visit me if you could." 

 

"I'd like that," she replies, and then sleep comes for her at last.

 

~~~**~~~ 

 

"Won't she know from the pictures you posted on Instagram?" Bellamy bites his lip anxiously and gazes up again toward the escalator for the fifth time in a minute. 

 

"No," Clarke insists again, patting his arm soothingly. "She didn't have internet in that last chateau her group was staying in, I already told you." 

 

It's January, and they're waiting in a very crowded baggage claim for Octavia to appear. Bellamy checks his watch again. "Her flight landed almost half an hour ago, maybe there's someone I can--"

 

"There she is!" Clarke chirps excitedly, moving her hand to wave enthusiastically at the striking brunette gliding down the escalator like a runway model. 

 

"Bellamy Blake! You didn't!" shrieks Octavia. 

 

He looks sheepish, but Octavia's shrewd eyes catch Clarke staring up at him with heart eyes and the way he has her tucked safely under his arm. 

 

Clarke bites her lip and turns back as her best friend approaches, wrapping her up in a hug. 

 

"Welcome home," Clarke offers, caught between hope and caution. 

 

Octavia glances back at her brother, who's staring determinedly at her shoulder while a beetroot blush creeps into his face. 

 

"YOU DID!!!" Octavia is radiant. She punches Bellamy once on the arm before launching herself against him in a bone-cracking hug. "You finally got your shit together and told Clarke you're in love with her." 

 

There's an awkward moment where Octavia panics, fearing she spoke too soon. But then Bellamy relaxes his shoulders, gives an affirming jerk of his chin and grabs Clarke's hand, using his other to wheel Octavia's mammoth bag that appeared before she had toward the exit. 

 

“Something like that,” he offers. 

 

“Tell. Me. Everything!!” she pesters Clarke, drumming against her shoulder. 

 

“Well,” Clarke glances up at Bellamy, who squeezes her fingers once reassuringly. 

 

“Cliff notes,” he mouths to her while Octavia's attention is momentarily caught up by a pair of thigh-high boots breezing past them. 

 

“It’s kind of a crazy story. It all started on my birthday…” 


End file.
